What do you know of my heart? What do you know of anything but your own suffering. For weeks, Marianne, I've had this pressing on me without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature. It was forced on me by the very person whose prior claims ruined all my hope. I have endured her exultations again and again whilst knowing myself to be divided from Edward forever. Believe me, Marianne, had I not been bound to silence I could have provided proof enough of a broken heart, even for you.

But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.

She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart.

Eleanor went to her room "where she was free to think and be wretched.

…Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.

Existía el consuelo de que no era una de esas personas tan privilegiadas para quienes los sentimientos son siempre muy intensos y duraderos.

Every line, every word was -- in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid -- a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was -- in the same language -- a thunderbolt. -- Thunderbolts and daggers! -- what a reproof would she have given me! -- her taste, her opinions -- I believe they are better known to me than my own, -- and I am sure they are dearer.