Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons by Jane Austen, Vera Nazarian

from whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of him. Thus, his impression on her fancy was not to weaken.
    Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, “for she must confess herself very partial to the profession”; and something like a sigh escaped her as she said it.
    Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion—but she was not experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced. And at that moment there were no angelic voices within awareness to offer the sort of guidance she was willing to hear.
    Meanwhile, Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had at last found some acquaintance in the family of a most worthy old friend; and furthermore had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her previous sad daily expressions were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse [9] of the two families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; spending the chief of each day by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation (scarcely any exchange of opinion, and hardly any resemblance of subject), for Mrs. Thorpe talked of her children, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.
    Contrary to angelic warning, the progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick, as its beginning had been warm (at least in the figurative sense—without admitting it even to herself, Catherine resorted to wearing additional wraps in her friend’s chill-inducing presence; even Mrs. Allen started to notice the cold and complain about it, without clearly knowing its cause).
    The two friends passed rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness. They called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in (frozen) arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set. And if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.
    Yes, novels . For I will not adopt that ungenerous custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very things which they are producing—and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine. If she is to accidentally take up a novel [10] , she must turn over its insipid pages with disgust. [11]
    Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers [12] to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. [13]
    Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. [14]
    From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. [15] There seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, [16] and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
    “I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that I often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the common cant.
    “And what are you reading, Miss—?”
    “Oh! It is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda