What a pity he had never married, to have had daughters of his own! "But I suppose, Amy, some men are born to be bachelors." "I suppose they are, mother," Amy replied, and found immediately after that she had left her scissors, she couldn't possibly remember where; perhaps in your room, mamma, perhaps in mine.
They must be looked for, however, and, O how curious! there they lay in her own room upon the table.

In her own room, where she opened the new book and read in it for half an hour at a time, but always poring on the same page.

It was such a profound work.

It was so full of weighty matter.
When would she ever read it through at this rate, for the page over which she pored had less on it than any other page in the book.

In fact it had nothing on it but that very commonplace and familiar form of words, "To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt." Amy was entirely of her mother's opinion.