Austen Said:

the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.

"Yet I hardly know how,"

"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."

he was perfectly good humoured and friendly.

"I should guess so,"

"from what I have witnessed this morning."

"I confess,"

"that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

"I think every one MUST admire it,"

"who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do."

"Upon my word,"

"I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him."

"And who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?"

the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable;

the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed;

could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.

the question a very odd one,

she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

"No,"

"I know nothing of her."

"I am sorry I do NOT,"

"if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."

"Good heavens!"

"what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?"

"May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?"

"Four years!"

"I did not know,"

"that you were even acquainted till the other day."

"Your uncle!"

"I think I have,"

"Certainly,"

"Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars! — I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really — I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"It is strange,"

"that I should never have heard him even mention your name."

"Four years you have been engaged,"

"You are quite in the right,"

"I certainly did not seek your confidence,"

"but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

"Pardon me,"

"but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you."

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

"No,"

"I remember

he told us, that

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

This picture,

might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else;

"I did,"

Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her.

He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her — illiterate, artful, and selfish?