The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep
sighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her,
his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution;
but Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and his
attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be
long supported.
Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude,
and sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile,
which comforted her; but the first day's journey passed
without her hearing a word from him on the subjects
that were weighing him down. The next morning produced
a little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford,
while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observation
of the departure of a large family from the inn,
the other two were standing by the fire; and Edmund,
particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks,
and from his ignorance of the daily evils of her
father's house, attributing an undue share of the change,
attributing _all_ to the recent event, took her hand,
and said in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder--
you must feel it--you must suffer.
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