which distance, absence, and hopelessness, seemed only to render more dear.
"Is it possible," she often asked herself, "that I am the same person who, last spring, fancied a visit to London the summit of earthly enjoyment? I remember how my heart beat while reading Mr. Delawarr's letter: what did I hope for? what did I expect?—no one positive object. But how little it took then to give me pleasure!—how many things I then took pleasure in, that are now, some indifferent, many absolutely distasteful! I no longer read with the enjoyment I did: instead of identifying myself with the creations of the writer, I pause over particular passages—I apply the sorrows they depict to my own feelings; and turn from their lighter and gayer pages—they mock me with too strong a contrast. I do not feel so kind as I did. I wonder how others can be gratified with things that seem to me positively disagreeable. I ought to like people more than I do. Alas! I look forward to next year and London with disgust. I would give the world to remain quiet and unmolested—to make my own life like a silent shadow—and to think my own thoughts. I wish for nothing—I expect nothing."
