If I Am Wrong, I Am Doing

They Are Much To Be Pitied Who Have Not Been Given A Taste For Nature Early In Life.

It Is The Misfortune Of Poetry, To Be Seldom Safely Enjoyed By Those Who Enjoy It Completely.

We Certainly Do Not Forget You As Soon As You Forget Us. It Is, Perhaps, Our Fate Rather Than Our Merit. We Cannot Help Ourselves. We Live At Home, Quiet, Confined, And Our Feelings Prey Upon Us. You Are Forced On Exertion. You Have Always A Profession, Pursuits, Business Of Some Sort Or Other, To Take You Back Into The World Immediately, And Continual Occupation And Change Soon Weaken Impressions.

If Gratitude And Esteem Are Good Foundations Of Affection, Elizabeth's Change Of Sentiment Will Be Neither Improbable Nor Faulty. But If Otherwise--if Regard Springing From Such Sources Is Unreasonable Or Unnatural, In Comparison Of What Is So Often Described As Arising On A First Interview With Its Object, And Even Before Two Words Have Been Exchanged, Nothing Can Be Said In Her Defence, Except That She Had Given Somewhat Of A Trial To The Latter Method In Her Partiality For Wickham, And That Its Ill Success Might, Perhaps, Authorise Her To Seek The Other Less Interesting Mode Of Attachment.

But There Was Happiness Elsewhere Which No Description Can Reach.