Host

The hair was curled and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.

It was a wretched business indeed.

Such an overthrow of everything she had been wishing for.

Such a development of everything most unwelcome.

Such a blow for Harriet.

That was the worst of all.

Every part of it brought pain and humiliation of some sort or other.

But compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light, and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken, more in error, more disgraced by misjudgment than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.

If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne anything.

He might have doubled his presumption to me, but poor Harriet.

How she could have been so deceived.

He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet.

Never.

Never.

She looked back as well as she could, but it was all confusion.

She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made everything bend to it.

His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.

The Picture

How eager he had been about the picture and the charade, and an hundred other circumstances.

How clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet.