Dignity of sulking so seductive to the wounded spirit of man
     Discover the writers in a day when all are writing! 
     Disqualification of constantly offending prejudices
     Dogs die more decently than we men
     Dreads our climate and coffee too much to attempt the voyage
     Effort to be reticent concerning Nevil, and communicative
     Efforts to weary him out of his project were unsuccessful
     Empty magnanimity which his uncle presented to him
     Energy to something, that was not to be had in a market
     Feigned utter condemnation to make partial comfort acceptable
     Feminine pity, which is nearer to contempt than to tenderness
     Fine eye for celestially directed consequences is ever haunted
     Fit of Republicanism in the nursery
     Forewarn readers of this history that there is no plot in it
     Fretted by his relatives he cannot be much of a giant
     Frozen vanity called pride, which does not seek to be revenged
     Give our courage as hostage for the fulfilment of what we hope
     Give our consciences to the keeping of the parsons
     Given up his brains for a lodging to a single idea
     Good maxim for the wrathful—­speak not at all
     Grief of an ill-fortuned passion of his youth
     Had come to be her lover through being her husband
     Half-truth that we may put on the mask of the whole
     Hates a compromise
     Haunted many pillows
     He was too much on fire to know the taste of absurdity
     He condensed a paragraph into a line
     He runs too much from first principles to extremes
     He bowed to facts
     He lost the art of observing himself
     He had expected romance, and had met merchandize
     He smoked, Lord Avonley said of the second departure
     He never calculated on the happening of mortal accidents
     Heights of humour beyond laughter
     Holding to his work after the strain’s over—­That tells the man
     Hopes of a coming disillusion that would restore him
     How angry I should be with you if you were not so beautiful! 
     Humour preserved her from excesses of sentiment
     I can confess my sight to be imperfect:  but will you ever do so? 
     I do not think Frenchmen comparable to the women of France
     I cannot say less, and will say no more
     If there’s no doubt about it, how is it I have a doubt about it? 
     Immense wealth and native obtuseness combine to disfigure us
     Impossible for him to think that women thought
     Impudent boy’s fling at superiority over the superior
     In India they sacrifice the widows, in France the virgins
     Incessantly speaking of the necessity we granted it unknowingly
     Infallibility of our august mother
     Inflicted no foretaste of her coming subjection to him
     Irony provoked his laughter more than fun