She was well paid for her impudence

Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion- her malice- at all events it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my letter-writing? delicate- tender- truly feminine- was it not?" "Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing." "Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own- her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed- but I am talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was necessary to me; and in a situation like mine any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character, in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel; and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion,' said I to myself: 'I am shut out for ever from their society; they already think me an unprincipled fellow; this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings 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.