Fanny’s heart was so full, her senses still so astonished, that she overlooked the overt hints in Henry’s use of such terms as the deepest interest; twofold motives; views and wishes more than could be told. She could listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, saying only, “How kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!”

She jumped up and moved in haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible.”

But this could not be suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. Henry was after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer.”

He took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in the middle of his further explanation, before she had suspected for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself expected to believe that she had created “sensations which his heart had never known before,” and that everything he had done for William was because of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable to speak.

She considered it all nonsense—mere trifling and gallantry, meant only to deceive. It was treating her improperly and unworthily, in a way she had not deserved. Indeed, it was very like him, entirely consistent with what she had seen before.

But she could not reveal her displeasure, because he had been conferring an obligation, which no indelicacy on his part could diminish. While her heart was still bounding with gratitude on William’s behalf, she could not be resentful.

Fanny drew her hand away, and repeatedly attempted in vain to turn away from him. Finally she got up in agitation: “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray don’t! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it.”

And her thoughts raced to an image of Edmund’s dear kind countenance, which then was replaced, inexplicably, with another, that of dark ancient beauty and intense, beloved, stricken eyes. . . .

But Henry was still talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in plain words, offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance.

It was so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and though still did not suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an answer.

“No, no, no!” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express. But I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such—No, no, don’t think of me. But you are not thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”