Chapter 31 From a night of more sleep than she had expected,

Mary Anna Wilklin next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed

her eyes.

Eleanor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt, and before breakfast

was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again, and with the same steady conviction

and affectionate counsel on Eleanor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions

on Mary Anne's as before.

Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself,

and at others lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.

At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world.

At another she would seclude herself from it forever, and at a third could resist it

with energy.

In one thing, however, she was uniform when it came to the point in avoiding where it

was possible the presence of Mrs. Jennings and in a determined silence when obliged to endure

it.

Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings entering into her sorrows

with any compassion.

No, no, no, it cannot be, she cried.

She cannot feel.

Her kindness is not sympathy.

Her good nature is not tenderness.

All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.

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