sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s

insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the

real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any

wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done

which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all

pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when

she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which,

if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which

bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings

were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.

Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished

to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false!

This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had

gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the

last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not

regard it, that she would never look in it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on

nothing, she walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter

was unfolded again; and collecting herself as well as she could, she

again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and

commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.

The account of his connection with{255} the Pemberley family was exactly

what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy,

though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his

own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to

the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living

was fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his very words, it was