
    »I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was not
for the entail I should not mind it.«
    »What should not you mind?«
    »I should not mind any thing at all.«
    »Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility.«
    »I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the entail. How
any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own
daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too! - Why
should he have it more than anybody else?«
    »I leave it to yourself to determine,« said Mr. Bennet.
 
                                 End of Vol. I.
 

                                   Volume II

                                   Chapter I

Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence
conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and
concluded with her brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects
to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
    Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the
letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that
could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it. Her
many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their
increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes
which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure
of her brother's being an inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with
raptures, some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture.
    Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard
it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister,
and resentment against all the others. To Caroline's assertion of her brother's
being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane,
she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had always been
disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without
contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution which now
made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own
happiness to the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however,
been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what
ever manner he thought best; but her
