He sees me suffering under the condescending attentions and prosaic discourses of the one, and the repulsive obtrusions of the other, without so much as a shadow of commiseration for me, or resentment against my tormentors.

He never could have loved me, or he would not have resigned me so willingly, and he would not go on talking to everybody else so cheerfully as he does--laughing and jesting with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing Milicent Hargrave, and flirting with Annabella Wilmot--as if nothing were on his mind.

Oh! why can't I hate him?
I must be infatuated, or I should scorn to regret him as I do.

But I must rally all the powers I have remaining, and try to tear him from my heart.

There goes the dinner-bell, and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here at my desk all day, instead of staying with the company: wish the company were--gone..