the whole evening. She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command
over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if
they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
connected with him.

CHAPTER XVI

Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding
all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent
enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to
Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined,
and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had
written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther
sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day
applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing
and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books
too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast
between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing
but what they had been used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these
employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and
silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as
lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.
Dashwood could