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all the slowness of sorrow, in all the weariness of monotony, had the last few months worn away: Emily recovered from regretting her uncle only to find how much she missed him. It is a wretched thing to pass one's life among those utterly incapable of appreciating us; upon whom our sense or our sentiment, our wit or our affection, are equally thrown away: people who make some unreal and distorted picture of us—say it is our likeness, and act accordingly. After the first grief, or rather fright, of Mr. Arundel's death, and when broad hems and deep crape-falls had been sufficiently discussed to