As for Willoughby--to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions.

But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment." She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart, everything would become easy." Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word .-- She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.

A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one.

She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged.

As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs.