Austen Said:

Patterns of Diction in Jane Austen's Major Novels

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Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her!
a farrier’s bill!
To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable! — Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!
How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest curiosity about it.
no untoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still something remarkable,
In this there was surely something mysterious,
till the possibility of the door’s having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener,
For the world would she not have her weakness suspected,
the wind had kept her awake a little.
“But we have a charming morning after it,”
“and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”
“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”
“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather I am out more than half my time.
Mamma says
I am never within.”
“Is it a pretty place?”
it was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms.
her unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her;
“I believe it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s account; he always walks out at this time of day.”
Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the general’s side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking.
She was all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about the grounds.
If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it.
“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went into it.”
“Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.”
“This is so favourite a walk of mine,”
“that I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
“I am particularly fond of this spot,”
“It was my mother’s favourite walk.”
“I used to walk here so often with her!”
“though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
“And ought it not,”
“to endear it to her husband? Yet the general would not enter it.”
“Her death must have been a great affliction!”
“A great and increasing one,”
“I was only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know what a loss it was.”
“I have no sister, you know — and though Henry — though my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”
“To be sure you must miss him very much.”
“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”
“Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was it from dejection of spirits?”
The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
“Her picture, I suppose,”
“hangs in your father’s room?”
“No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber — where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like."
Here was another proof. A portrait — very like — of a departed wife, not valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
the nature of the feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion.
Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious
She had often read of such characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the contrary.
“This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or a conscience void of reproach.”
It was very noble — very grand — very charming! —

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