Austen Said:

Patterns of Diction in Jane Austen's Major Novels

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“the letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.”
“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.”
“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with you, for such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”
they were very well able to keep a good cook,
her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen.
herself not at all offended;
“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,”
“and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?”
“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
“Ah!”
“then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”
“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.”
“Do you know, mamma,
that
My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.”
“As to her younger daughters, she could not take upon her to say — she could not positively answer — but she did not know of any prepossession; her eldest daughter, she must just mention — she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.”
she had no disinclination for it.
“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough — I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”
the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to her.
“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”
“I beg your pardon,”
His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them,
then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked.
Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate,
“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.”
having spoken so sensibly,
he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.
“Lord, how tired I am!”
of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn,
how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation.
“Oh dear! — yes — certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy — I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.”
“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.”
“Lizzy, I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”
on the happy prospect of their nearer connection.
“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,”
“that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will make her know it.”
“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,”
“Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.”
“Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have her.”
“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”
“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.”
“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking in this way? You promised me to insist upon her marrying him.”
to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family.
“Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,”
“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.”
“Aye, there she comes,”
“looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy — if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all — and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep you — and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! — But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”
“Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation together.”
“Oh! Mr. Collins!”