Austen Said:

"A very simple one — to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"But why should such precaution be used? — Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon, — for THAT must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? — She has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account — she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. — She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!"

"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by THIS time."

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."

"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert."

"Have you ever seen the lady?"

"Is mama coming? — "

"Not yet,"

"but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."

"But she must not go round by London,"

"I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

"No, sir,"

"I shall NOT stay. Your business cannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"With me!" —

"well, sir, — be quick — and if you can — less violent."

"Pray be quick, sir," —

"I have no time to spare."

"We hope she is."

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe — I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. — Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

"At Marlborough!" —

"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO — that after what has passed — your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. — What is it, that you mean by it?"—

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already, — for Marianne DOES — she has LONG forgiven you."

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. — Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject."

"You did then,"

"believe yourself at one time attached to her?"

"I have,"

"I have heard it all. And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be — your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?"

"a note would have answered every purpose. — Why was it necessary to call?"

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"

"Well, sir,"

"and this is all?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. — Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

"Watched us out of the house!"

"We are assured of it."

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?"

"Your wife! — The letter was in your own hand-writing."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,"

"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne — nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

"Yes, you have certainly removed something — a little. — You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know — the misery that you have inflicted — I hardly know what could have made it worse."

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."

"Are you going back to town?"

"What do you mean?"

"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now."

"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself."

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two."