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198 foam, seen in obscurity, like lines of snow. Her first burst of passionate grief was over, and the relief it gave was over too;—the hysteric rush of long-suppressed tears is enjoyment, compared to the hopeless despondency which succeeds. Emily looked down on the calm deep waters, and wished that she were sleeping beneath them. For her the wide world was a desolation;—she felt but the misery of loving in vain, and the shame which heightens such misery. Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present. Every cause she had for regret rose upon her mind. She thought upon her utterly isolated situation;—the ties of blood, or of that early affection which supplies their place, were to her but names. She had no claim of kindred, or even of habit, on any living creature—no one in the world whom she could say really loved her, or to whose love she had a right. True, Lady Mandeville had been kind, very kind—but she had so many others to love; and Emily, somewhat forgetful of the real affection ever shewn to herself, thought but of the utter want of sympathy between their characters,