— I fear I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.
— Shall we ask him why? Why a man of sense and education, who has lived in the world, should be ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?
— I... I have not that talent which some possess, of conversing easily with strangers.
— I do not play this instrument so well as I should wish to, but I have supposed that to be my own fault, because I would not take the trouble of practising!
— You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one privileged of hearing you could think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.

— I would wish... I should so much like... to marry for love.
— And so you shall, I'm sure. Only take care you fall in love with a man of good fortune.
— Well, I shall try. To please you. And you?
— I am determined...that only the deepest love will induce me into matrimony. So... I shall end an old maid, and teach your 10 children to embroider cushions and play their
instruments very ill.

— I believe I can guess your thoughts at this moment.
— I should imagine not.
— You are thinking how insupportable it would be to spend many evenings in such tedious company.
— My mind was more agreeably engaged. I've been meditating on the pleasure, which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.
— And may one dare ask whose are the eyes that inspired these reflections?
— Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

— All young ladies are accomplished! They sing, they draw, they dance, speak French and German, cover screens, and I know not what!
— Not half a dozen would satisfy my notion of accomplished woman.
— Certainly! No woman can be esteemed accomplished, who does not also possess a certain something in her air, in the manner of walking, in the tone of her voice, her address and expressions. And to this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.
— I'm no longer surprised at you knowing only six accomplished women. I wonder at your knowing any.

— Miss Eliza Bennet. Let me persuade you to follow my example and take a turn about the room. It's so refreshing! [Elizabeth gets up and walks across the room with Caroline Bingley] Will you not join us, Mr. Darcy?
— That would defeat the object.
— What do you mean, sir? What can he mean?
[Elizabeth} — I think we would do better not to enquire.
— Nay, we insist on knowing your meaning, sir!
— That your figures are to best advantage when walking, and that I might best admire from my present position.
— Shocking! Abominable reply!

— I'll tell you what I'll do. I shall write to Mr. Bingley, informing him...that I have five daughters, and he is welcome to any of them. They're all silly and ignorant, like other girls. Well, Lizzy has more wit than the rest. But he may prefer a stupid wife, as others have done before him. There, will that do?
— No! I beg you will not write if you... You take delight in vexing me! You have no compassion on my poor nerves!
— You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They've been my old friends for 20 years least.

— But he may fall in love with one of them. Therefore you must visit him directly he comes.
— Visit?! No, no, I see no occasion for that.
— Mr. Bennet!
— Go yourself with the girls. Still better, send them by themselves.
— By themselves?!
— Aye, for you're as handsome as any of them. Mr. Bingley might like you best of the party.