There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.
Elizabeth admits a guarded heart. Loving few and thinking well of fewer sets closeness against skepticism. The confession makes her more human: a bright mind tired of social nonsense. It also explains why integrity matters so much to her—trust is precious because it’s rare. The mood isn’t despair; it’s a wary honesty that clears space for the real thing. When she revises her views later, we feel the shift deeply.