thus. And why, have I constantly asked myself, should I repress or
conceal sensations that are the dues of merit? No: they ought not to
have been repressed, or concealed, but they ought to have been rendered
intelligible, incapable of misconstruction, and not liable to a meaning
which they were never intended to convey. For, if ever they were more
than I suppose, I have indeed been guilty.

Yes, my Louisa, let me discharge my conscience. Let no accusation of
deceit rest with me. I can endure any thing but self-reproach. I avow,
therefore, Frank Henley is, in my estimation, the most deserving man I
have ever known. A man that I could love infinitely. A man whose
virtues I do and must ever love. A man in whose company my heart
assures me I could have enjoyed years of happiness. If the casuists in
such cases should tell me this is what they mean by love, why then I am
in love.

But if the being able, without a murmur, nay cheerfully, to marry
another, or see him properly married, if the possession of the power
and the resolution to do what is right, and if an unshaken will to
exert this power prove the contrary, why then I am not in love.

When I may, without trespassing on any duty, and with the full
approbation of my own heart, yield up its entire affections, the man to
whom they shall be devoted shall then find how much I can love.

My passions must be, ought to be, and therefore shall be, under my
control; and, being conscious of the purity of my own intentions, I
have never thought that the emanations of mind ought to be shackled by
the dread of their being misinterpreted. It is not only cowardly, but
in my opinion pernicious.