I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.
I imagined myself indifferent to her, when I was only angry and resentful. But too late. Too late I begin to understand myself and her. Never have I met her equal in good sense or sweetness of character. She is perfection itself. I’ve never loved any but her.
Frederick Wentworth, when casually asked, What’s the deal with that Anne Elliot girl?