Miss Bates Quotes

It is such a happiness when good people get together -- and they always do.

Jane Austen, who is said to be Shakespearian, never reminds us of Shakespeare, I think, in her full-dress portraits, but she does so in characters such as Miss Bates and Mrs. Allen.

Miss Bates…had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal goodwill and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body’s happiness and quick-sighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body and a mine of felicity to herself.

That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?

You think he is marrying her for money?' 'Yes, I do. Don't you think so?' 'I should say quite certainly,' said Miss Marple. 'Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger's daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they've married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out of the girl. But if they marry a rich girl they continue to respect her.

Charlotte Palmer is no sillier than Harriet Smith; and yet, how intolerable we should find it to see and hear as much of Charlotte as we do of Harriet! And would Miss Bates have been endurable if she had been presented in the mood and manners of Sense and Sensibility?

Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy. 'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?—(looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent)—Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be limited as to number—only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.

Miss Parkinson lived alone in a big bay-windowed house of Edwardian brick with a vast garden of decaying fruit trees and untidy hedges of gigantic size. She was great at making elderberry wine and bottling fruit and preserves and lemon curd and drying flowers for winter. She felt, like Halibut, that things were not as they used to be. The synthetic curse of modern times lay thick on everything. There was everywhere a sad drift from Nature.

(3) And now, let us go a little deeper. The manager is going to put in new machinery: before Christ has finished with Miss Bates, she is going to be very ‘nice’ indeed. But if we left it at that, it would sound as though Christ’s only aim was to pull Miss Bates up to the same level on which Dick had been all along. We have been talking, in fact, as if Dick were all right; as if Christianity was something nasty people needed and nice ones could afford to do without; and as if niceness was all that God demanded. But this would be a fatal mistake. The truth is that in God’s eyes Dick Firkin needs ‘saving’ every bit as much as Miss Bates. In one sense (I will explain what sense in a moment) niceness hardly comes into the question

Jordan Peterson, a Canadian clinical psychologist and author, dubbed the new guidelines ‘reprehensible, infuriating and disheartening’, claiming that the APA was dominated by ‘political types’ and ‘hard-left leaning political activists’.27 AVFM described it as a ‘war on masculinity’, calling the APA ‘armed combatants in the war of ideas’. Their objection? That the guidelines acknowledged men as beneficiaries of privilege within a patriarchal society and suggested that certain forms of masculinity were harmful. But what they seemed to miss entirely was that that harm is damaging men and boys, not just women and girls. The male suicide rate is one of the genuine areas of serious concern most commonly cited by MRAs.

But I drew the line, one evening, at Jerry O'Keefe's, the fish-shop where people crammed in late for hot plates of peas and chips and yellow-battered fish, in a kind of boiler house of steaming fat, after the last cinema show or the old theatre. 'But why?' she said. 'Why? It looks fun in there.' I said I did not think it the place for her, and she said: 'You talk like a parson or something. You talk just like old Miss Crouch.' 'I'm not taking you,' I said. 'Why? If it's good enough for these people it's good enough for us, isn't it?' 'No.' 'That's because you're really an awful snob,' she said. 'You're too uppish to be seen in there.' 'It's not myself,' I said. 'It's you.' 'Are you going to take me or aren't you?' she said. 'No,' I said. 'I'm not.' She turned and walked down the street. I stood for a moment alone, stubbornly, watching her swinging away into darkness out of the steamy, glowing gas-light. Then I had a moment of sickness when I felt she was walking out of my life, that I had given her impossible offence and that I should never see her again. 'Wait,' I said, 'wait. Don't go like that. I'll take you.

I hung up the phone after saying good night to Marlboro Man, this isolated cowboy who hadn’t had the slightest probably picking up the phone to say “I miss you.” I shuddered at the thought of how long I’d gone without it. And judging from the electrical charges searing through every cell of my body, I realized just how fundamental a human need it really is. It was as fundamental a human need, I would learn, as having a sense of direction in the dark. I suddenly realized I was lost on the long dirt road, more lost than I’d ever been before. The more twists and turns I took in my attempt to find my bearings, the worse my situation became. It was almost midnight, and it was cold, and each intersection looked like the same one repeating over and over. I found myself struck with an illogical and indescribable panic--the kind that causes you to truly believe you’ll never, ever escape from where you are, even though you almost always will. As I drove, I remembered every horror movie I’d ever watched that had taken place in a rural setting. Children of the Corn. The children of the corn were lurking out there in the tall grass, I just knew it. Friday the 13th. Sure, it had taken place at a summer camp, but the same thing could happen on a cattle ranch. And The Texas Chain Saw Massacre? Oh no. I was dead. Leatherface was coming--or even worse, his freaky, emaciated, misanthropic brother. I kept driving for a while, then stopped on the side of the road. Shining my brights on the road in front of me, I watched out for Leatherface while dialing Marlboro Man on my car phone. My pulse was rapid out of sheer terror and embarrassment; my face was hot. Lost and helpless on a county road the same night I’d emotionally decompensated in his kitchen--this was not exactly the image I was dying to project to this new man in my life. But I had no other option, short of continuing to drive aimlessly down one generic road after another or parking on the side of the road and going to sleep, which really wasn’t an option at all, considering Norman Bates was likely wandering around the area. With Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. And Grendel.

If the plural for marble, marbles, is slang for sanity, then what does it mean to get lost in a room of marble statues?

In the New Testament era, a person would enact faith (pistis) toward someone or something else by outward doing.

Sarah goes to school, and the teacher says, "Class, today we are going to learn multi-syllable words. Does anybody have an example of a multi-syllable word?" Sarah waves her hand, "Me, Miss Rogers, me, me!" Miss Rogers says, "All right, Sarah, what is your multi-syllable word?" Sarah says, "Mas-tur-bate." Miss Rogers smiles and says, "Wow, Sarah, that's a mouthful." And Sarah says, "No, no, Miss Rogers, you're thinking of a blowjob.

Still, she missed Doroshenko tremendously. Tall and handsome, he was also intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and a good listener. And of course a good kisser! Zina could not say who prevailed on this account—Doroshenko or Igor—as she had only kissed Igor a couple of times now, while she and Doroshenko must have kissed…oh, she couldn’t even count. Zina pushed aside the memories. As pleasant as they may be, they hurt too. Because Doroshenko would never kiss her again.

Only regarding the Spirit. Paul says that this appointment as Son-of-God-in-Power “pertains to the Spirit of Holiness.” On the basis of Old Testament evidence and the Dead Sea Scrolls, most scholars agree that “Spirit of Holiness” was a Hebraic way of referring to the Holy Spirit.

He cleared his throat and launched into the traditional formal opening. Atalanta listened with bated breath. Who was the main beneficiary of the will?

My bubbe's holiday dinners were legendary, the tables overflowing with platters of brisket and tzimmes, stuffed cabbage and potato knishes, blintzes and kugel and fat loaves of challah. Ever since she died eight years ago, our holiday celebrations have splintered into quiet, nuclear affairs, and this year, with my parents in London, we aren't even getting together. But I miss her cooking, the way her tender brisket melted on the tongue, the way her stuffed cabbage hugged the fragrant beef filling tightly and always tasted both a little sweet and a little sour.

The gospel is the true story of how Jesus the Son was sent by God the Father to become the saving king who now rules forever at his right hand through the sending of the Holy Spirit, fulfilling God’s promises in Scripture.

Prudence disliked being called ‘Miss Bates’; if she resembled any character in fiction, it was certainly not poor silly Miss Bates.

I missed that guy sometimes, the old me.

I missed that guy sometimes, the old me. Actually, I missed him a lot. Every day he seemed to be receding farther and farther into memory, becoming a little less defined, harder to identify, and I figured someday I wouldn’t remember him at all.

She rolls her eyes. "Great. Another shady loser. Just what you need." "People make mistakes, Libby. No one is perfect." She cackles loudly. "This coming from Miss Perfectionist." "Hey---that isn't fair. I'm far from perfect." "Oh, I know. Trust me, I've seen your closet." "Yeah, well, maybe if Mom took me shopping all the time, my closet would look more like yours." Libby shrinks back from the screen defensively. "Mom takes me shopping because we both like to shop. You hate shopping. You always have." "Or maybe I never felt welcome." "What? That's crazy. You were always welcome. You never wanted to come." "That's not how I remember it." Libby pulls her hair into a low ponytail. "You always think I get special treatment from Mom and Dad." I let out a huff. "Uh, maybe because you do?" "That's totally untrue. Like with the wedding? Dad is refusing to pay for those chairs, and he isn't budging." "I'd hardly call that an act of cruelty. They're chairs. Their main function is to serve as a resting place for your ass." "No, their main function is to look beautiful." "Perhaps you are unfamiliar with what a chair does...

She and Doroshenko had been together for close to a year by then, and she still hadn’t let him do anything more than kiss her. He wasn’t confusing love and sexuality. He knew they were opposite ends of a stick—but the same stick. It wasn’t like he wanted to have sex with her. Well, he did. But he would have been satisfied with foreplay. Feeling a breast, say, or slipping a hand down her pants. Even better, her slipping a hand down his pants. But they participated in none of that. She wasn’t shy. Zina was anything but shy. She was simply prudish. And hypocritical. Hence the reason he finally decided to end their relationship. He’d taken her aside one day at UPI and told her it would be best if they took a break from seeing each other. The surprise on her face had been satisfying. She’d cried and pleaded for him to reconsider. He almost did. However, he’d had a plan. He’d let her stew on her own for a couple of weeks. Only then, after she realized how much he meant to her, how much she needed him, would he take her back—for which she would be so grateful she would most certainly loosen up. Only Zina got over him much faster than he anticipated. In fact, she bounced back to her cheerful self within a few days. She didn’t seem to miss him at all; at least she didn’t show this.

Right,” she said. “Come down off that chair. I think we are ready for the next step.” “What do you mean?” “I am going to see Mrs. Carter tomorrow. I shall tell her that you are not able to keep up with the twins in lessons.” “But--” Miss Minton held up her hand. “Don’t interrupt, please. I shall tell her that I will set you to work separately because you are holding the twins back. That means I am trusting you to work on your own. I shall, of course, help you whenever I can, but you must keep up the deception.” She gave one of her tight smiles. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have an interesting time. I have a book about the history of Brazil, and one by Bates, the explorer who first described this part of the Amazon. And another by Humboldt--a very great scientist. The twins may live as though they are still in Littleford-on-Sea, but there is no need for us to do so.” Maia jumped from the chair. “Oh, Minty,” she said, and threw her arms around her governess. “Thank you. I’m sorry…I thought--” “Well don’t,” said Miss Minton briskly. And then: “Come along, it’s time we opened my trunk.” Miss Minton had been poor all her life. She had no trinkets, no personal possessions; her employers underpaid her when they paid her at all--but her trunk was an Aladdin’s cave. There were travel books and fairy tales, novels and dictionaries and collections of poetry… “How did you get them all?” Maia asked wonderingly. “How did you manage?” Miss Minton shrugged. “If you want something enough you usually get it. But you have to take what goes with it”--and she pointed to her shabby blouse and mended skirt. “Now, let’s see---what shall we start with? Ah yes, here is Bates. He must have sailed down this very river not sixty years ago. Look at that drawing of a sloth…

At first glance, Miss Hetty Bates would not be considered a rational creature. Although universally adored by her neighbours, her rambling and nonsensical speeches make her the object of ridicule by Emma, while her often ironic disclosures unwittingly reveal clues to the intrigues in Highbury. Despite living in genteel poverty, she maintains an outward appearance of cheer and contented independence. And yet: “Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.” —Chapter XLIX, Emma.