A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 35 | unasked popular opinions

"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding- certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."

What nonsense, Mr. Darcy?

Everyone merited a second chance no matter what happened.

A while ago, Darcy said Mr. Bingley was secretly boasting about his flaws when describing them and didn't think they were flaws, and labeled him, a pushover, ' but here he was all flesh and blood doing the equivalent.

Mr. Darcy was the worst person because he boasts of his pride, and his ability to hold lasting grudges due to his resentful temper.

How dare he even point out Lizzy's prejudice when he couldn't even see his fall in character but boast of it?

I was annoyed because Mr. Darcy's character reminded me of Dwain.

Dwain overlooked his flaws and his inhuman attitude towards Elizabeth but attributed the blame to her poor character; failing to remember he got nasty first.

An irony indeed, he didn't admit his hypocrisy and pride.

Exhausted from the progress of an all-morning reading and grumbling over the not-so-perfect characters of Jane Austen, I sat upright on the bed and leaned my back into the comfort of my pillow.

Holding the third sticky note of the day, I smoothened it on chapter Eleven of the book.

Gripping my cup of hot coffee which stood on the cupboard in both hands, I swirled it around and brought its content close to my lips for a quick blow and I inhaled the strong scent of roasted coffee seeds.

I sipped a little and placed it back to rest before fixing the sleeves of my nightgown to tighten at my arm as Dwain's doings crossed my mind.

Rolling my eyes from my thoughts, I picked up a steel pen from earlier and paid no attention to the crappie handwriting which came as a result of jotting down quick thoughts that diffused as a puff of air.

My fingers itched to write about the situation at hand; the evil in Dwain which irritated me to my core.

Men like him merited all their misfortunes.

Dwain Horton is the epitome of hypocrisy. He sees his shortcomings as a good thing, because he trusts his Judgement, thinking that: anyone who insults him isn't worth his good opinion and wants to stick to them without compromising. Hence, his silly reason for seeking revenge, when in reality his flaws are the root cause of all the havoc brought to himself and everyone else.

One last glance at the little note and how straight to the point my thoughts were conveyed on paper, a proud smile played on my face while I closed the book and lay it to rest under my pillow.

Stretching my hand over my head, the urge to call Elizabeth and ask about the situation at home crossed my mind, but I brushed it off since another urge to know about Dwain's whereabouts overshadowed the first.

In the streaming of the morning sun and chanting of melodious birds, I moved my blanket from my thighs and strode to the curtains at the window, memorizing every inch of the softness of the rug on the floor.

I pushed the curtains apart and inspected the city across the towering glass.

Gentle bits of morning air filled my lungs and my eyes closed on instinct as I breathe in and out.