He Certainly Is Very Agreeable, And I

Pity Is For This Life, Pity Is The Worm Inside The Meat, Pity Is The Meat, Pity Is The Shaking Pencil, Pity Is The Shaking Voice-- Not Enough Money, Not Enough Love--pity For All Of Us--it Is Our Grace, Walking Down The Ramp Or On The Moving Sidewalk, Sitting In A Chair, Reading The Paper, Pity, Turning A Leaf To The Light, Arranging A Thorn.

I Am Not Fond Of The Idea Of My Shrubberies Being Always Approachable.

The Person, Be It Gentleman Or Lady, Who Has Not Pleasure In A Good Novel, Must Be Intolerably Stupid.

In A Letter From Bath To Her Sister, Cassandra, One Senses Her Frustration At Her Sheltered Existence, Tuesday, 12 May 1801. Another Stupid Party . . . With Six People To Look On, And Talk Nonsense To Each Other.

It Was For The Sake Of What Had Been, Rather Than What Was.