But I am not sentimentalizing, you are really this day and scene in my heart.' Emma smiled confidingly.

She spoke her reflection: 'The heart must be troubled a little to have the thought.

The flower I gather here tells me that we may be happy in privation and suffering if simply we can accept beauty.

I won't say expel the passions, but keep passion sober, a trotter in harness.' Diana caressed the ponies' heads with the droop of her whip: 'I don't think I know him!' she said.
Between sincerity and a suspicion so cloaked and dull that she did not feel it to be the opposite of candour, she fancied she was passionless because she could accept the visible beauty, which was Emma's prescription and test; and she forced herself to make much of it, cling to it, devour it; with envy of Emma's contemplative happiness, through whose grave mind she tried to get to the peace in it, imagining that she succeeded.

The cloaked and dull suspicion weighed within her nevertheless.