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Every line, every word was -- in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid -- a dagger to my heart. To know that Mar...more

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What do you know of my heart? What do you know of anything but your own suffering. For weeks, Marianne, I've had this pressing on me without being at ...more

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…Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.

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She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart.

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But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.