“No, no,” cried Marianne, “misery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like⁠—may resist insult, or return mortification⁠—but I cannot. I must feel⁠—I must be wretched⁠—and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.”

“But for my mother’s sake and mine⁠—”

“I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable⁠—oh, oh, who can require it?”

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby’s letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed⁠—