What One Means One Day, You Know,

She Looked Back As Well As She Could; But It Was All Confusion. She Had Taken Up The Idea, She Supposed And Made Everything Bend To It.

The More I See Of The World, The More Am I Dissatisfied With It; And Everyday Confirms My Belief Of The Inconsistencies Of All Human.

What Do You Know Of My Heart? What Do You Know Of Anything But Your Own Suffering. For Weeks, Marianne, I've Had This Pressing On Me Without Being At Liberty To Speak Of It To A Single Creature. It Was Forced On Me By The Very Person Whose Prior Claims Ruined All My Hope. I Have Endured Her Exultations Again And Again Whilst Knowing Myself To Be Divided From Edward Forever. Believe Me, Marianne, Had I Not Been Bound To Silence I Could Have Provided Proof Enough Of A Broken Heart, Even For You.

She Thought It Was The Misfortune Of Poetry, To Be Seldom Safely Enjoyed By Those Who Enjoyed It Completely; And That The Strong Feelings Which Alone Could Estimate It Truly, Were The Very Feelings Which Ought To Taste It But Sparingly.

To Her Own Heart It Was A Delightful Affair, To Her Imagination It Was Even A Ridiculous One, But To Her Reason, Her Judgment, It Was Completely A Puzzle.