If she loved a person, it was enough.

She made mistakes one couldn't help smiling at, till one grew serious to adore her for it.

And yet when she read a book, provided it wasn't written by a friend, edited by a friend, lent by a friend, or associated with a friend, her judgment could be fine and discriminating on most subjects, especially upon subjects connected with life and society and manners.

Shall I confess?
She never taught _me_ anything but a very limited admiration of Miss Austen, whose people struck me as wanting souls, even more than is necessary for men and women of the world.

The novels are perfect as far as they go--that's certain.