Love.
What does Sterne say? That love is no more made by talking of it, than a black pudding would be. Habit, association, assimilation of tastes, communion of thought, kindness without pretension, solicitude without effort, a tacit agreement and a silent sympathy; these are the excitements and stimulants of the only sort of love that is worth thinking of.
Brighton.
Brighton will be as good a residence as any other; there's nobody there knows much of either of you; and the place has got so big, that you may be as snug as you please; a large town and a large party, are the best possible shelters for love matters. Ay, go to Brighton—the prawns for breakfast, the Wheatears (as the Cockneys delicately call them, without knowing what they are talking about) for dinner, and the lobsters for supper, with a cigar, and a little ginnums and water, whiffing the wind, and sniffing the briny out of one of the bow-window balconies—that's it—Brighton's the place, against the world.
Murder.
A gentleman criminal is too rich a treat to be overlooked; and a murder in good society forms a tale of middling life, much too interesting to be passed over in a hurry.
A Love Errand.
He went to look for something which he had not left there, and whither she followed him, to assist in a pursuit which she knew went for nothing.