Austen Said:

Patterns of Diction in Jane Austen's Major Novels

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on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain — Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature.
she did; — that she forgave, pitied, wished him well — was even interested in his happiness —
Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them,
now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion,
— to his wishes than to his merits.
his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge.
it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.
"poor Willoughby,"
to HIS sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due,
one of the happiest women in the world.
whether her mother ever recollected Edward.
Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which,
her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her;
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given; — but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject,
was such, as,
must arise from something more than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others;
something more than gratitude already dawned.
an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
That would not do. —
she should in future practice much.
the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control.
promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity.
she was sorry for him; — she wished him happy.
Edward would never come near them.
they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.
every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.
she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be.
she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;
— that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married;
What had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!
They would soon,
be settled at Delaford.
some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars, —
They were all thoughtless or indolent.
Now she could hear more;
But — it was NOT Colonel Brandon — neither his air — nor his height.
it must be Edward.
it WAS Edward.
she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him; —
to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.
How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration, — a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family —
perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas,
a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself.
not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford —
Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. —
Mrs. Ferrars was the most unfortunate of women — poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility —
Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage;