If This Man Had Not Twelve Thousand

From The Very Beginning— From The First Moment, I May Almost Say— Of My Acquaintance With You, Your Manners, Impressing Me With The Fullest Belief Of Your Arrogance, Your Conceit, And Your Selfish Disdain Of The Feelings Of Others, Were Such As To Form The Groundwork Of Disapprobation On Which Succeeding Events Have Built So Immovable A Dislike; And I Had Not Known You A Month Before I Felt That You Were The Last Man In The World Whom I Could Ever Be Prevailed On To Marry.

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.

Dress Is At All Times A Frivolous Distinction, And Excessive Solicitude About It Often Destroys Its Own Aim.

And Now I May Dismiss My Heroine To The Sleepless Couch, Which Is The True Heroine's Portion - To A Pillow Strewed With Thorns And Wet With Tears. And Lucky May She Think Herself, If She Get Another Good Night's Rest In The Course Of The Next Three Months.

Always Resignation And Acceptance. Always Prudence And Honour And Duty. Elinor, Where Is Your Heart?