So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

So thought Fanny, in sober sadness, as she sat musing over her luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering at what was yet to come, and with nothing clear but the certainty of her being never able to love Mr. Crawford.
