s, I saw every note that passed."

"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is--in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--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 Marianne was in town
was--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts and
daggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her
opinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I am
sure they are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it
her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

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

"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say
awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that
she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be
heartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- But this note made me
know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than
any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But
every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat
was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent
no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
Berkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely
out of the house one morning, and left my name."

"Watched