ings, as,
in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and
parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes--unluckily
they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, and
could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that too I had always
carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by
Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every
memento was torn from me."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She
must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "She does
not deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we
married.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity
me, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be
it only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was
before?--My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away
any part of my guilt?"

"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly
know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have
made it worse."

"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well
as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be
able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my
penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."

"I will tell her all that is nece