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Oh dear! A drunken infidel weaver! said Mr. Hale to himself.

Elizabeth Gaskell

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Elizabeth Gaskell
Age: 54 †
Born: 1810
Born: September 29
Died: 1865
Died: January 12
Biographer
Novelist
Writer
London
England
Author of Mary Barton
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson
Mrs. Gaskell
née Stevenson
Weaver
Weavers
Drunken
Infidel
Hale
Dear

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I know you despise me allow me to say, it is because you don't understand me.
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But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be.
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But the monotonous life led by invalids often makes them like children, inasmuch as thy have neither of them any sense of proportion in events, and seem each to believe that the walls and curtains which shut in their world, and shut out everything else, must of necessity be larger than anything hidden beyond.
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Margaret was not a ready lover, but where she loved she loved passionately, and with no small degree of jealousy.
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I would not trust a mouse to a woman if a man's judgment could be had.
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..still to have loved her without return would have lifted you higher than all those, be they who they may, that have ever known her to love.
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It is odd enough to see how the entrance of a person of the opposite sex into an assemblage of either men or women calms down the little discordances and the disturbance of mood.
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That kind of patriotism which consists in hating all other nations.
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People may flatter themselves just as much by thinking that their faults are always present to other people's minds, as if they believe that the world is always contemplating their individual charms and virtues.
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Margaret found that the indifferent, careless conversations of one who, however kind, was not too warm and anxious a sympathizer, did her good.
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He loved her, and would love her and defy her, and this miserable bodily pain.
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She never called her son by any name but John 'love' and 'dear', and such like terms, were reserved for Fanny.
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But suppose it was truth double strong, it were no truth to me if I couldna take it in. I daresay there's truth in yon Latin book on your shelves but it's gibberish and no truth to me, unless I know the meaning o' the words.
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He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time but now the recollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him through and through,—to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it were wax before a fire.
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I wish I could love people as you do, Molly!' 'Don't you?' said the other, in surprise. 'No. A good number of people love me, I believe, or at least they think they do but I never seem to care much for any one. I do believe I love you, little Molly, whom I have only known for ten days, better than any one.
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He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it.
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I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my agony and if you don't hate her, i do' Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by you, and I must make the balance even.
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It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite.
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And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more daring than became a man to threaten her.
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As she realized what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what was.
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