When Lydia sat through an hour with her face hidden in her hands, he knew that the day had been very dark and weary with her, but said in himself that a sister's love was little compared with such as his.

He would not reason on what had happened, save when to do so with Lydia brought him comfort; alone, he brooded over his hope.

It was the only way to save himself from madness.
On the day after seeing Egremont he received a long letter from him.
Egremont wrote from his heart, and with a force of sincerity which must have swept away any doubts, had such still lingered with the reader.
The inevitable antagonism of the personal interview was a pain in his memory; if the intercourse of friendship was for ever at an end for them, he could not bear to part in this way, with hesitating words, with doubts and reticences.

'In your bitter misery,' he said, 'you may accuse me of affecting sympathy which I do not feel, and may scorn my expressions of grief as a cheap way of saving my self-respect.

I will not compare my suffering with yours, but none the less it is intense.
This is the first great sorrow of my life, and I do not think a keener one will ever befall me.