Jane Austen’s Emma

I suspect my ongoing experience can be summed up by Black Adder:

Baldrick: “What, Jane Austen’s a man?”
Black Adder: “Of course — a huge Yorkshireman with a beard like a rhododendron bush.”
Baldrick: “Oh, quite a small one, then?”
Black Adder: “Well, compared to Dorothy Wordsworth’s, certainly. James Boswell is the only real woman writing at the moment, and that’s just because she wants to get inside Johnson’s britches.”

Seriously though, Emma is like a very nice cup of tea, except that it comes in 12 gallon servings.

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