Sublime

I’m in love. Nobody loves me. I’m in love. Nobody loves me.

‘My dear Elinor, do let the poor woman alone. Such contrivances are of no use,’ said the easy Rector. ‘No use? How are matches made, except by bringing men and women together?

I love all this, perhaps because I have nothing else to love, and perhaps also because nothing is worth a human soul’s love, and so it’s all the same – should we feel the urge to give it – whether the recipient be the diminutive form of my inkstand or the vast indifference of the stars.

‘It is very good of you to be anxious about me. It is because you did not like Lowick yourself: you had set your heart on another kind of life. But Lowick is my chosen home.’ The last sentence was spoken with an almost solemn cadence, and Will did not know what to say, since it would not be useful for him to embrace her slippers, and tell her that

mien,