…but Then I Am Unlike Other People

No: The Years Which Had Destroyed Her Youth And Bloom Had Only Given Him A More Glowing, Manly, Open Look, In No Respect Lessening His Personal Advantages. She Had Seen The Same Frederick Wentworth.

I Am Now Convinced That I Have Never Been Much In Love; For Had I Really Experienced That Pure And Elevating Passion, I Should At Present Detest His Very Name, And Wish Him All Manner Of Evil. But My Feelings Are Not Only Cordial Towards Him; They Are Even Impartial Towards Her. I Cannot Find Out That I Hate Her At All, Or That I Am In The Least Unwilling To Think Her A Very Good Sort Of Girl. There Can Be No Love In All This.

Loss Of Virtue In A Female Is Irretrievable; That One False Step Involves Her In Endless Ruin; That Her Reputation Is No Less Brittle Than It Is Beautiful; And That She Cannot Be Too Much Guarded In Her Behaviour Towards The Undeserving Of The Other Sex.

I Am Not Romantic, You Know; I Never Was.

The More I Know Of The World, The More I Am Convinced That I Shall Never See A Man Whom I Can Really Love.