Austen Said:

Patterns of Diction in Jane Austen's Major Novels

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"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own — her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! — we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed — But I am talking like a fool. Preparation! — day! — In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? — It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. — 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion — ' said I to myself — 'I am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes — unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever — I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair — that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence, — the dear lock — all, every memento was torn from me."
"Do not talk to me of my wife,"
"She does not deserve your compassion. — She knew I had no regard for her when we married. — Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. — And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? — or have I said all this to no purpose? — Am I — be it only one degree — am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? — My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?"
"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been telling you? — Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours.
You tell me that
she has forgiven me already.
Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence — tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."
"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was — for the first time these two months — he spoke to me. — That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to — though probably he did not think it WOULD — vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore,
he told me that
Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland — a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent — the Palmers are all gone off in a fright,
&c. — I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while
he reminded me of
an old promise about a pointer puppy.
What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying — and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments — for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? ONE person I was sure would represent me as capable of any thing — What I felt was dreadful! — My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all."
"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."
"No — to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye."
"And you DO think something better of me than you did?"—
"As to that,"
"I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means — it may put me on my guard — at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again — "
"Well," —
"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."
"Your sister's marriage."
"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear — but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, — God bless you!"
"We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;"
"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."
"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and
bid me
"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and
said
She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy."
"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up; — he never was a gentleman much for talking."
"No, ma'am, only they two."
as Miss Lucy — Mrs. Ferrars told me."
"Yes, ma'am — but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here."
"No, ma'am — the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late."
"Yes, ma'am,
she said how
and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady — and she seemed vastly contented."
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I WILL be calm; I WILL be mistress of myself."
"At Longstaple!"
"No, my mother is in town."
"Perhaps you mean — my brother — you mean Mrs. — Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars."
"Perhaps you do not know — you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to — to the youngest — to Miss Lucy Steele."
"Yes,"
"they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."
"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,"
"the consequence of ignorance of the world — and want of employment. Had my brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think — nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too — at least I thought so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly."
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 was exactly like Robert," —
"And THAT,"