— Well...?
— I like them both exceedingly. But I like Julia best.
— Why?
— Because her Aunt Norris advised me that it must be so!
— Well told, Tom! More dim-witted fiction to clutter the world.
— Come now, Mr. Bertram. Drama is to life what ships are to the sea. A means to traverse it. To plumb its depths, breadth and beauty.
— I couldn't agree more. Good drama, in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the liveliest wit, are conveyed to the world through the best chosen language. This is essential. This is trash!
— This Henry Crawford, what's he like?
— A rake, I think.
— Yes, please!
— They amuse more in literature than in life.
— But they amuse! And Lady Bertram?
— She's always suffering fatigue.
— Why?
— Generally from embroidering something of little beauty. Not to mention a handsome dose of opium daily.
— The fools! Under this roof! They should've known Rushworth would bring in a newspaper man.
— Under which roof would it have been better, Mary?
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