“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an

impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such

a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper

feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never

forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible

way that would induce you to accept me.”
“Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at

all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he,—“did it soon make you

think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its

contents?”
She explained what its effects on her had been, and how gradually all

her former prejudices had been removed.
“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was

necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part,

especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power

of{453} reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly

make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the

preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my

opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily

changed as that implies.”
“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly

calm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a

dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The

adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings

of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely

different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance

attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my

philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you

pleasure.”