Good Lord deliver me also from further experience of the exciting vicissitudes of a stock-jobbing career! Then again, apart from personal prejudices, I am appalled, quite simply, at the cold-blooded marriage traffic that I see going on in London.

Any crime committed in the name of Love is forgivable, but to sell a girl--soul and body to the highest bidder is to my mind, the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost.

Frankly, I'm petrified with amazement at the way in which mothers hurl their daughters at the head of any man who will make a good settlement.

There's Molly's sister--she chases the game till she has corralled it, and once inside her walls the unfortunate prey hasn't swallowed his first cup of tea before she has wedded him in imagination to one of her girls--"How do you like Mr CHOSE ?" "Like him?
What is there to like?
He's the same as all the rest of the men, and they're as like as a box of ninepins..." "But what do you think of him... ?" "But really there's nothing to think" ...

"But don't you think he'd do for Hester ?" etcetera, etcetera.
She has just married the one before Hester to what she calls the perfect type of an English country gentleman--meaning that he owns an historical castle in Scotland, a coal mine in Wales and a mansion in Park Lane.