There existed in her bosom a sort of craving after confidential friendship,--but with it there existed something that was altogether incompatible with confidence.

She thoroughly despised Augusta Fawn, and yet would have been willing,--in want of a better friend,--to press Augusta to her bosom, and swear that there should ever be between them the tenderest friendship.

She desired to be the possessor of the outward shows of all those things of which the inward facts are valued by the good and steadfast ones of the earth.
She knew what were the aspirations,--what the ambition, of an honest woman; and she knew, too, how rich were the probable rewards of such honesty.

True love, true friendship, true benevolence, true tenderness, were beautiful to her,--qualities on which she could descant almost with eloquence; and therefore she was always shamming love and friendship and benevolence and tenderness.

She could tell you, with words most appropriate to the subject, how horrible were all shams, and in saying so would be not altogether insincere;--yet she knew that she herself was ever shamming, and she satisfied herself with shams.