
        a wife. If I did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course
        I should not say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced, that she is
        not without a decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual.
        It is the influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am
        jealous of. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not
        higher than her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our
        incomes united could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I
        could better bear to lose her, because not rich enough, than because of
        my profession. That would only prove her affection not equal to
        sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and if I
        am refused, that, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I
        trust, are not so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as
        they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are some times contradictory,
        but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once
        begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her
        up. Connected, as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up
        Mary Crawford, would be to give up the society of some of those most
        dear to me, to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom,
        under any other distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of
        Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny.
        Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to
        bear it, and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart - and in
        the course of a few years - but I am writing nonsense - were I refused,
        I must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is
        the truth. The only question is how? What may be the likeliest means? I
        have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and
        sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even
        now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is
        at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly
        determined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certainty
        is a material object. My present state is miserably irksome. Considering
        every thing, I think a letter will be decidedly the best method
