Emma

they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I
have not always known their writing apart.”

“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what
you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”

“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and
always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a sigh and half a
smile at her.

“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began, looking also at
Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending
to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I
going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once
before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout
phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that
would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce
his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and
better.—Now for it.”

Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill
writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”

“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants
strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”