I'm finding this very hard to read, much to my surprise, because I don't know which direction to let my emotions go. Anne's melancholy, Wentworth's anger and hurt, and the humor of the Musgroves are so interwoven that just when I start to really feel one I'm blindsided by another in the next sentence. Case in point: dinner at the Musgroves, when FW comes to sit on the couch to talk with Mrs. Musgrove about her son, Richard:

They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs. Musgrove had most readily made room for him: they were divided only by Mrs. Musgrove. It was no insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs. Musgrove was of a comfortable, substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.

It's the emotional equivalent of one of those Gold Rush roller coaster rides - it's fast and choppy, rather than having long climbs and huge drops. Don't expect any one sensation to last too long!