I Want Nothing But Death.

Everybody Likes To Go Their Own Way–to Choose Their Own Time And Manner Of Devotion.

What Do You Know Of My Heart? What Do You Know Of Anything But Your Own Suffering. For Weeks, Marianne, I've Had This Pressing On Me Without Being At Liberty To Speak Of It To A Single Creature. It Was Forced On Me By The Very Person Whose Prior Claims Ruined All My Hope. I Have Endured Her Exultations Again And Again Whilst Knowing Myself To Be Divided From Edward Forever. Believe Me, Marianne, Had I Not Been Bound To Silence I Could Have Provided Proof Enough Of A Broken Heart, Even For You.

An Interval Of Meditation, Serious And Grateful, Was The Best Corrective Of Everything Dangerous In Such A High-wrought Felicity; And She Went To Her Room, And Grew Steadfast And Fearless In The Thankfulness Of Her Enjoyment.

There Seems Almost A General Wish Of Descrying The Capacity And Undervaluing The Labour Of The Novelist, And Of Slighting The Performances Which Have Only Genius, Wit, And Taste To Recommend Them.

It Is Not Time Or Opportunity That Is To Determine Intimacy;—it Is Disposition Alone. Seven Years Would Be Insufficient To Make Some People Acquainted With Each Other, And Seven Days Are More Than Enough For Others.