Burning my letters was the greatest kindness you ever did me, Cassandra mine: you saw the future, yet none believed your prophecy. How we thrilled that day to Tom, revelling in the music of that unlovely name: your promised Tom, and my Tom full of promise. For the worst of my anguish, look into Pride and Prejudice for Wickham or to Willoughby in Sense and Sensibility. She goes on to write Aunt Jane was too clever not to put aside all signs of commonness and to teach herself to be more refined. An American who hides behind the soubriquet of Mark Twain has this to say: Jane Austen’s books, too, are absent from this library.