length reflections of herself: the solitude made them painful; and, catching up a book, she threw herself into an arm-chair, which, at least, had the advantage of being far from any glass.
There is a certain satisfaction in the appearance of employment, and Emily opened her book; but she could not read—her thoughts were far away. Mortification had added divers prose notes to the poetry of the last few weeks. Her first impulse was to deny her feelings even to herself—her second to laugh bitterly at such vain deceit. Then she recalled words, looks, whose softness had misled;—alas! a slight investigation served to shew how much their colouring had been given by herself; and, as a last resource, she began to magnify the merit of Edward Lorraine.
Our being attached to a hero almost makes a heroine; and excellence is an excellent excuse for admiration. Yes, he was worthy of devotion, such as the heart pays, and once only, to the idol it has itself set up; but it was to be deep, silent, and unsuspected. And Adelaide—she would love her! How kind, how true, were the next moment's wishes for their happiness!
What a pity it is that our most pure and most beautiful feelings should spring from false
