Austen Said:

She looked all loveliness—and what might not be the end of it?

if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been terrible;

having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing began.

"Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,"

she was to lead the way and open the ball;

that she hoped it might be settled otherwise;

To be placed above so many elegant young women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her cousins!

they were not at home to take their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which would have been so very delightful to them.

So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And to have them away when it was given—and for her to be opening the ball— and with Mr. Crawford too!

they would not envy her that distinction now

to what they had all been to each other when once dancing in that house before,

much rather not have been asked by him again so very soon,

she had not been obliged to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening.

But it was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit.

It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.

"Oh! William."

"Oh! yes, sir,"

"I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning."

a ball was indeed delightful.

as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

"And that makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?"

the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole day together, and he was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them, without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

"I do not know,"

"Yes; I had not particularly expected it."

"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A few days longer, or some days longer; I am not quite sure which."

"Three grown up."

"I do not at all know. I never heard."

"I know nothing of the Miss Owens,"

"You cannot doubt your being missed by many,"

"You will be very much missed."

"No,"

"I do not expect it at all."

"No, I do not,"

"He is best off as he is,"

"Has this been all your doing, then?"

"Good heaven! how very, very kind! Have you really— was it by your desire? I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I am stupefied."

"How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!"

"I will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible."

all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour;

she could not but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a piece with what she had seen before;

"Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it."

"No, no, no!"

"This is all nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such— No, no, don't think of me. But you are not thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."

It was all beyond belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted— she knew not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. That was a fact beyond a doubt, and without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

though he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see him again so soon.

it was evident that she meant to compliment her on her brother's attachment, and even to appear to believe it serious.

There was everything in the world against their being serious but his words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits.