Austen Said:

Patterns of Diction in Jane Austen's Major Novels

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'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.'—Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?— And a fine ending— and there is the letter.
"I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said."
"Is not she looking well?"
"Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."
"The shame,"
"is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none."
"That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near —and I wish I had— it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing."
"I have some hope,"
"of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a distance from her— is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?"
"Ah! by the bye,"
"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?"
"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise."
"Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and yet without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair— a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.—Just colour enough for beauty."
"Oh! no— what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—"
"Oh! no, no, no— — how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!"
"True, true,"
"No, not true on your side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You will be glad to hear
that
my uncle means
I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?"
"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come."
"Perry!"
"My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has he set up his carriage?"
"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!"
"I can never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye— that the whole blunder is spread before her— that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the others?"
"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of the poet— 'Heaven's last best gift.'"
"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,"
"they are very elegant, agreeable girls."
"Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best, because you order me."
"Do not I tell you that I like her best at first?"
"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be done."
"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; that is your opinion of your intimate friend. I do not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."
"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,"
"but I fear there would be some disappointment: you would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for improvement, there was very little for me to do —too little: I should like to have been busy much longer."
"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done, and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having so much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own."
"To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure."
"I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."
"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"
"Query,"
"whether we may not find something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?"
"Miss Price all alone"
"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already,"
"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth,"
"I do not think that I shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me."
"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the world."
"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh."
"More easily amused,"
"consequently, you know,"
"better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."