Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not eight years do? Events of every description, changes, alienations, removals…
I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.
I imagined myself indifferent to her but I was only angry and resentful. Too late… too late I began to understand myself and her. Never have I met her equal in good sense or sweetness of character. She’s perfection itself. I’ve never loved any but her.
“… Mr. Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others… . Mr. Elliot was to generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers of her father’s house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood too well wuth everybody.”
She gloried in being a sailor’s wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance.