We're with you, Emma...

The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts. -- She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprise; and every surprise must be matter of humiliation to her.-- How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under! -- The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart! -- she sat still, she walked about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery -- in every place, every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.

To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.

How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun? -- When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied? -- She looked back, she compared the two -- compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her -- as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it -- oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison. -- She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley has infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart -- and in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!

This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in reaching it. -- She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her -- her affection for Mr. Knightley. -- Every other part of her mind was disgusting.

So many cliches I could use for this one...

Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection. -- Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been. -- Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even willfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarreling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own -- but still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety of her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dearer to him; might she not say, very dear? -- When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them.

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