Everything JA writes about Anne's feelings in anticipation of FW's arrival, and in his presence, just bowls me over. So many of the authors who preceded JA, or were contemporary with her, it seems to me wrote about characters whose thoughts, feelings, and behavior bore little resemblance to reality. Then along comes JA and actually writes the TRUTH about how people think and feel:

she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers. She knew herself to be of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her, if Frederick Wentworth were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others?...

Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not eight years do?...

Alas! with all her reasonings, she found, that to retentive feelings eight years may be little more than nothing.

Now, how were his sentiments to be read? Was this like wishing to avoid her? And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which asked the question...

"Altered beyond his knowledge!" Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep mortification. Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for he was not altered, or not for the worse...

"So altered that he should not have known her again!" These were words which could not but dwell with her...

They were actually on the same sofa[!]...

Once she felt that he was looking at herself, observing her altered features, perhaps, trying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed him...
he had sat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss Musgroves an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that part of the room; he saw her, and instantly rising, said, with studied politeness --

"I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat"; and though she immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced to sit down again.

Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than any thing.

These are feelings which are no different in 2005 than they were in 1815, and I marvel anew everytime I read them.