His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice.

He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty.

It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.Wickham--when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her.

She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"-- and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr.Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words.

So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great.