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She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor

Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had been blind,

partial, prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably have I acted!" she cried. "I, who have prided

myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my

abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my

sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameless distrust.

How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!

Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind.

But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the

preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on

the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted

prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either

were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself."