prompt:
Chapter: More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly
meet Mr. Darcy.--She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that
should bring him where no one else was brought; and to prevent its ever
happening again, took care to inform him at first, that it was a
favourite haunt of hers.--How it could occur a second time therefore was
very odd!--Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful
ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not
merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he
actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of
listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre
that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her pleasure in
being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr.
and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her
not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever
she came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts?
She supposed, if he meant any thing, he must mean an allusion to what
might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was
quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the
Parsonage.

She was engaged one day as she walked, in re-perusing Jane's last
letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not
written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy,
she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting
away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said,

"I did not know before that you ever walked this way."

"I have been making the tour of the Park," he replied, "as I generally
do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
you going much farther?"

"No, I should have turned in a moment."

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.

"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
arranges the business just as he pleases."

"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."

"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than
many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence."

"In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of
either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
wherever you chose, or procuring any thing you had a fancy for?"

"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry
where they like."

"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do."

"Our habits of expence make us too dependant, and there are not many in
my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
money."

"Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what is
the usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
she soon afterwards said,

"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her."

"No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must
divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."

"Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age, are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
may like to have her own way."

As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly, and the manner
in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,

"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."

"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentleman-like
man--he is a great friend of Darcy's."

"Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily--"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."

"Care of him!--Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."

"What is it you mean?"

"It is a circumstance which Darcy of course would not wish to be
generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family,
it would be an unpleasant thing."

"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."

"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
Bingley. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself
on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him
the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."

"Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?"

"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady."

"And what arts did he use to separate them?"

"He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam smiling. "He
only told me, what I have now told you."

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.

"I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your
cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"

"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of
his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy." "But,"
she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the
particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case."

"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is
lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."

This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of
Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and,
therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent
matters till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
could not exist in the world _two_ men, over whom Mr. Darcy could have
such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she
had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,
_he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause of all that
Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a
while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart
in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have
inflicted.

"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words, and these strong objections probably were, her
having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
business in London.

"To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of
objection. All loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could
any thing be urged against my father, who, though with some
peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain,
and respectability which he will probably never reach." When she thought
of her mother indeed, her confidence gave way a little, but she would
not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.
Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from
the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want
of sense; and she was quite decided at last, that he had been partly
governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of
retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much
as possible prevented her husband from pressing her, but Mr. Collins
could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
displeased by her staying at home.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Elizabeth, rambling in the park, often meets Darcy unexpectedly. On these occasions, he walks with her and asks odd questions about her likes and dislikes. Once she meets Fitzwilliam while she is strolling, and they speak of Darcy. Fitzwilliam tells her that recently Darcy has saved a friend from an unwise marriage, and he suspects this friend to be Bingley. Elizabeth is pained over hearing the news. She is furious with Darcy for ruining her sisters life. She later feigns a headache so she will not have to accompany the others to Rosings; angry with Darcy for his interference in Janes life, she does not want to see him.


prompt:
Chapter: When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly
disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a
keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to
think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,
and a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be
with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her
spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But
this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said
not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an
agitated manner, and thus began,

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,
and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,
immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had
always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed
due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to
recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of
all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of
a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his
countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only
exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her
cheeks, and she said,

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be
felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any
one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of
short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the
acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming
it after this explanation."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed
on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of
his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well enquire," replied she, "why with so evident a design of
offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided
against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept
the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the
happiness of a most beloved sister?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued.

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied, "I have no wish of denying
that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your
sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
kinder than towards myself."

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike
is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was
decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy in
a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for
him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence
which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and
yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and
ridicule."

"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I
thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his
walk, and turning towards her, "these offences might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy
concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being
impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.
Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?
To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life
is so decidedly beneath my own?"

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said,

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the
concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a
more gentleman-like manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,

"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way
that would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my
acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of
disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness."

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an
hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was
increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for
so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all
the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her
sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,
was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously
so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,
and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his
cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the
pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady
Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter
Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When the Company leaves, Elizabeth begins to reread Janes letters. Suddenly Darcy comes back in. After making perfunctory inquiries about her health, he declares his love for Elizabeth, who is thunderstruck and mute. Darcy speaks a good deal about his pride and makes Jane feel she is socially inferior to him. He acts like his proposal to her is a divine honor, which Elizabeth cannot turn down. Elizabeth, furious over his superior attitude, spares no words in refusing him. She accuses Darcy of separating Jane and Bingley, of treating Wickham horribly, and of acting in an arrogant manner. Darcy accepts these accusations without apology, but it hurts him when she says that his demeanor is not gentlemanly. When Darcy leaves the house, Elizabeth is so flustered great that she breaks into tears.


prompt:
Chapter: Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of any thing
else, and totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after
breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
she turned up the lane, which led her farther from the turnpike road.
The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed
one of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent, had
made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
edged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced, was now
near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
her name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in
a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
gate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter,
which she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, "I
have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?"--And then, with a
slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of
sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder,
perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written
quite through, in a very close hand.--The envelope itself was likewise
full.--Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--

     "Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the
     apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments,
     or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to
     you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling
     myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both,
     cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation,
     and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been
     spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.
     You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
     attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
     demand it of your justice.

     "Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
     magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned
     was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached
     Mr. Bingley from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in
     defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity,
     ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr.
     Wickham.--Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of
     my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who
     had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who
     had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity,
     to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could
     be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison.--But
     from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally
     bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in
     future secured, when the following account of my actions and their
     motives has been read.--If, in the explanation of them which is
     due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
     may be offensive to your's, I can only say that I am sorry.--The
     necessity must be obeyed--and farther apology would be absurd.--I
     had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
     others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other
     young woman in the country.--But it was not till the evening of the
     dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a
     serious attachment.--I had often seen him in love before.--At that
     ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made
     acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information, that
     Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general
     expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event,
     of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I
     observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then
     perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had
     ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched.--Her look and
     manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any
     symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the
     evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with
     pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
     sentiment.--If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have
     been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make
     the latter probable.--If it be so, if I have been misled by such
     error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been
     unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity
     of your sister's countenance and air was such, as might have given
     the most acute observer, a conviction that, however amiable her
     temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.--That I was
     desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,--but I will
     venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually
     influenced by my hopes or fears.--I did not believe her to be
     indifferent because I wished it;--I believed it on impartial
     conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.--My objections to
     the marriage were not merely those, which I last night acknowledged
     to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my
     own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to
     my friend as to me.--But there were other causes of
     repugnance;--causes which, though still existing, and existing to
     an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to
     forget, because they were not immediately before me.--These causes
     must be stated, though briefly.--The situation of your mother's
     family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that
     total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed
     by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by
     your father.--Pardon me.--It pains me to offend you. But amidst
     your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your
     displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you
     consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to
     avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally
     bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to
     the sense and disposition of both.--I will only say farther, that
     from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was
     confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me
     before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
     connection.--He left Netherfield for London, on the day following,
     as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon
     returning.--The part which I acted, is now to be explained.--His
     sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our
     coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible
     that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly
     resolved on joining him directly in London.--We accordingly
     went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to
     my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.--I described, and
     enforced them earnestly.--But, however this remonstrance might have
     staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it
     would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
     seconded by the assurance which I hesitated not in giving, of your
     sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
     affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.--But Bingley has
     great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment
     than on his own.--To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived
     himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against
     returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given,
     was scarcely the work of a moment.--I cannot blame myself for
     having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the
     whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is
     that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to
     conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as
     it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant
     of it.--That they might have met without ill consequence, is
     perhaps probable;--but his regard did not appear to me enough
     extinguished for him to see her without some danger.--Perhaps this
     concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.--It is done, however,
     and it was done for the best.--On this subject I have nothing more
     to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's
     feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which
     governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have
     not yet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more
     weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only
     refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my
     family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but
     of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one
     witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very
     respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the
     Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his
     trust, naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on
     George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore
     liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and
     afterwards at Cambridge;--most important assistance, as his own
     father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
     been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not
     only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always
     engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the
     church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.
     As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
     of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities--the
     want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
     of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
     of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
     seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
     Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you only can tell.
     But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
     suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
     real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
     died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
     the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
     to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
     profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
     valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
     vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
     father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
     events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
     resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
     unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
     advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
     benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
     and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
     be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
     believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
     accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
     clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
     claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
     ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
     thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
     thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
     society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
     studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
     restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
     about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
     incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
     to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
     assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
     exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
     and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
     present him to the living in question--of which he trusted there
     could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
     person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
     father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
     comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
     His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
     circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
     to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
     appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
     last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
     must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
     myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
     me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
     doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
     junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
     Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
     school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
     summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
     and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
     proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
     Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
     her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
     whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
     kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
     herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
     fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
     imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
     herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
     intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
     of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
     a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
     and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
     prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
     the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
     her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
     sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
     help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
     strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
     This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
     have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
     it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
     towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
     falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
     be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
     concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
     suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
     wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
     master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
     For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
     particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
     near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
     the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
     with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
     _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
     by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
     be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
     some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
     of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

     "FITZWILLIAM DARCY."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next morning Elizabeth is walking by the park gates when she is confronted by Darcy, who thrusts a letter in her hand and leaves. The letter, contrary to her expectations, does not renew his marriage proposal. Instead, Darcy admits that he persuaded Bingley to give up Jane, for he had the impression that Jane did not really love Bingley. Darcy now realizes his mistake; however, he still feels the Bennet family, especially the mother, is ill suited to become the in-laws of a man of Bingleys caliber. Darcy also apologizes for keeping Janes presence in London a secret from Bingley. In regard to Wickham, Darcy informs Elizabeth that his own father, who employed Wickhams dad, had given Wickham 3,000 to aid him in studying law. Unfortunately, Wickham squandered the money in idle living; quickly exhausting the funds, Wickham demanded more money. When rebuffed by Darcy, Wickham tried to get back at Darcy by attempting to elope with Darcys young sister, which Darcy was able to foil. Darcy ends the letter by asserting the veracity of his statements, which Colonel Fitzwilliam can certify. Darcy closes the letter with "God bless you."


prompt:
Chapter: If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
and steadfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to
give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against every thing he might say, she began his account of
what had happened at Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which
hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing
what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the
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 any thing 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 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
impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
not err. But when she read, and re-read with the closest attention, the
particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
to the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three
thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the
letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on.
But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent, as to
render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life,
nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to
his real character, had information been in her power, she had never
felt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had
established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to
recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class, what Mr. Darcy
had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no
such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
read. But, alas! the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy,
received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin's corroboration.

She perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips's.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
the very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield
family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where
discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr.
Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the
father, would always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned!
His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing.
His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
incautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
acquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen any thing
that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--any thing that spoke him
of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was
esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of
his sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling. That had
his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
every thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself.--Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial,
prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably have I acted!" she cried.--"I, who have prided myself on
my discernment!--I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my
vanity, in useless or blameable distrust.--How humiliating is this
discovery!--Yet, how just a humiliation!--Had I been in love, I could
not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my
folly.--Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself."

From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
_there_, had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely
different was the effect of a second perusal.--How could she deny that
credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other?--He declared himself to have been totally
unsuspicious of her sister's attachment;--and she could not help
remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been.--Neither could she
deny the justice of his description of Jane.--She felt that Jane's
feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a
constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great
sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned, in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as
having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
than on hers.

The compliment to herself and her sister, was not unfelt. It soothed,
but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus
self-attracted by the rest of her family;--and as she considered that
Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she
had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
variety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities,
and reconciling herself as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her
at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of
appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.

She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take
leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
till she could be found.--Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in
missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
longer an object. She could think only of her letter.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At first, Elizabeth finds the contents of Darcys letter incredulous, but soon the veracity of it dawns on her as she recalls the unscrupulous way in which Wickham has floated tales about Darcy and the purely mercenary attachment he has formed with Miss King. She chides herself for being so wretchedly blind to Wickhams faults, which she believes she failed to discern because of her vanity. Although she cannot accept that Jane was ever insensitive to Bingley, Elizabeth concedes to the critical statements Darcy has made about her parents. When Elizabeth returns to the parsonage from the park, she learns that Darcy and Fitzwilliam will be leaving Rosings.


prompt:
Chapter: It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch-street, for the town of ---- in Hertfordshire;
and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was
to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up
stairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily
employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on
guard, and dressing a sallad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
"Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?"

"And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia; "but you must lend us the
money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there." Then shewing
her purchases: "Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it
is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better."

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight."

"Are they indeed?" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.

"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme,
and I dare say would hardly cost any thing at all. Mamma would like to
go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
have!"

"Yes," thought Elizabeth, "_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed,
and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton."

"Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down to
table. "What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about
a certain person that we all like."

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he
need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,

"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?
There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe."

"And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a connection
imprudent as to fortune."

"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."

"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side," said Jane.

"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it he never cared
three straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled
thing?"

Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
was little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied
liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.

"How nicely we are crammed in!" cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my
bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all,
since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
She is almost three and twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
being married before three and twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to
get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a
lady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Col. and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
something, and then they soon found out what was the matter."

With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia,
assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
say voluntarily to Elizabeth,

"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
came to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects
which occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table,
after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was
doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present
fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other,
retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice
rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various
pleasures of the morning to any body who would hear her.

"Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
as we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended
there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if
Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we
behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest
cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have
treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought
we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter.
And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so
loud, that any body might have heard us ten miles off!"

To this, Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear sister,
to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with
the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms
for _me_. I should infinitely prefer a book."

But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to any
body for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.

In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to
Meryton and see how every body went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed
the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at
home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was
another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again,
and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_,
of the regiment's approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In
a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be
nothing more to plague her on his account.

She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton
scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Kitty and Lydia wait at the village inn for their elder sisters. On their way back to Longbourn, they tell anecdotes and jokes to Elizabeth and Jane. Lydia reveals that Miss King has gone to Liverpool to break free from Wickham. Elizabeth and Jane are warmly welcomed by their parents. Mrs. Bennet is pleased to see Jane is still so beautiful, and Mr. Bennet more than once voices how glad he is to have his darling Lizzy back. Mrs. Bennet and her younger daughters are aggrieved because the militia regiment is leaving for Brighton. Elizabeth is relieved on hearing the news for two reasons. First, she does not want to see Wickham in her present agitated state of mind; and secondly, she feels her sisters will not be so capricious with the soldiers gone. Lydia has been invited to Brighton for the summer, and Mrs. Bennet and the younger girls want Mr. Bennet to take the whole family there. Although Mr. Bennet has no intentions of doing this, his answers are vague and equivocal.


prompt:
Chapter: Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no
longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular
in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,
she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.
Darcy and herself.

Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.

"His being so sure of succeeding, was wrong," said she; "and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment."

"Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?"

"Blame you! Oh, no."

"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham."

"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."

"But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very
next day."

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear one, without involving the other.

"This will not do," said Elizabeth. "You never will be able to make both
of them good for any thing. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.
Darcy's, but you shall do as you chuse."

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

"I do not know when I have been more shocked," said she. "Wickham so
very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only
consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of
his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
so."

"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
be as light as a feather."

"Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner."

"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it."

"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
used to do."

"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
opening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."

"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now."

"Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very
uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to, of what I
felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and
vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!"

"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved."

"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness, is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is
one point, on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not to make our acquaintance in general understand
Wickham's character."

Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, "Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?"

"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to
make his communication public. On the contrary every particular relative
to his sister, was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and
if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who
will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent,
that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to
attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham
will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here,
what he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we
may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will
say nothing about it."

"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate."

The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
of which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could
partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this
last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell
what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!"

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in
love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from
her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often
boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to
every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those
regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their
tranquillity.

"Well, Lizzy," said Mrs. Bennet one day, "what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I
cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a
very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his
coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every
body too, who is likely to know."

"I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more."

"Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was
her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure
Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he
has done."

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
she made no answer.

"Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it
will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,
she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say."

"No, nothing at all."

"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it
quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens."

"It was a subject which they could not mention before me."

"No. It would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt, they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: No longer able to restrain herself, Elizabeth tells Jane about Darcys proposal and her rejection of it; the kind-hearted Jane feels sorry for Darcy. Elizabeth also tells about Darcys letter and explains about Wickham. Jane, who is oblivious to the existence of wickedness in the world, finds it hard to understand Wickhams depravity. Elizabeth does not tell Jane of Darcys influencing Bingley against her, for she knows her sister still has a tender love for Bingley. Mrs. Bennet continues her easy criticism. She calls Bingley an undeserving young man who has treated Jane shabbily. She also makes barbed comments about the Collins.


prompt:
Chapter: The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in
the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.

"Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!" would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?"

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years
ago.

"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel
Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart."

"I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.

"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.

"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable."

"A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever."

"And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,"
added Kitty.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn-house. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.

But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the
regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew
about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for every one's
congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate
in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,"
said she, "though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older."

In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense
for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,

"Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little
expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances."

"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage to
us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
would judge differently in the affair."

"Already arisen!" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away
some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity,
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows
who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."

"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia's character. Excuse me--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
youth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of
her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty
is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrouled! Oh! my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
disgrace?"

Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and
affectionately taking her hand, said in reply,

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known,
you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three very silly
sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
object of prey to any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance
even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest
of her life."

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
in her nature, however, to increase her vexations, by dwelling on them.
She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over
unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
disposition.

Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw with the creative eye of
fancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers. She
saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at
present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp; its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she
saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.

Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and
such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could
have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the
same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the
melancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there
himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
continued with little intermission to the very day of Lydia's leaving
home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her,
an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance, could only serve, after
what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified
and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Meryton, he dined
with others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
enquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
him often; and after observing that he was a very gentleman-like man,
asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added, "How long did you
say that he was at Rosings?"

"Nearly three weeks."

"And you saw him frequently?"

"Yes, almost every day."

"His manners are very different from his cousin's."

"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance."

"Indeed!" cried Wickham with a look which did not escape her. "And pray
may I ask?" but checking himself, he added in a gayer tone, "Is it in
address that he improves? Has he deigned to add ought of civility to his
ordinary style? for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower and more
serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."

"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much
what he ever was."

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
and anxious attention, while she added,

"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that from
knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."

Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his
embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
accents,

"You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter
him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that
the sort of cautiousness, to which you, I imagine, have been alluding,
is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and
judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her, has always operated, I
know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his
wish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he
has very much at heart."

Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side,
of usual cheerfulness, but with no farther attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the
opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible; advice, which there
was every reason to believe would be attended to; and in the clamorous
happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus
of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: There is an omnipresent gloom over Hertfordshire as the regiments stay in Meryton is coming to an end. Kitty and Lydia are wretched, and their mother shares their grief. Elizabeth is ashamed of their behavior and realizes again the truth of Darcys denunciations. Elizabeth is worried about Lydias trip to Brighton with Mr. Foster; she is afraid that Lydia will behave in an unguarded, flippant, flirtatious, and wayward manner, damaging her reputation and the reputation of the Bennet family. Elizabeth, therefore, strongly advises her father not to allow Lydia to go; but her pleas fall on deaf ears. On the regiments last day in Meryton, Wickham and some other officers dine at Longbourn. Elizabeth tells Wickham that she has visited with Darcy and Fitzwilliam, which seems to alarm Wickham. He is also baffled by Elizabeths sudden reversal of opinion about Darcy and says that Darcy is always on his best behavior when he is staying with his aunt, Lady Catherine, whom he fears.