Edward is very amiable.

Amiable? But?

But there is something wanting. He is too sedate. His reading last night…

Elinor has not your feelings. His reserve suits her.

Can he love her? Can the soul really be satisfied with such polite affections? To love is to burn, to be on fire. Like Juliet, Guinevere, or Heloise.

They made rather pathetic ends. Did it?

Pathetic? To die for love? How can you say so? What could be more glorious?

I think you may be taking your romantic sensibilities a little far.

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