Pride and Prejudice

Chapter 36

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 well be 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 everything 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 anything 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;