Goodness but this book was dated.
I could not like the heroine, a mousy, compliant creature who can't snip roses for a couple of hours without wearing herself out and alarming her caring, stiff cousin, for whom she harbours a passion, which of course she would never voice because that would be improper. How repressed can a character be! But the novel argues that unless you're repressed you're improper, immoral, and will end up living in a shack with a horrible aunt and grow old and bitter, and you're damn lucky to have that, because you're an unmarriageable disgrace and a terrible slut. (All this, of course, while men do whatever they want.)
Fuck you, Jane Austen. To my eye, the villain of this story was not Henry Crawford's vanity or Mary Crawford's liberal friends, or Austen's apparently intended villain of "loose morals growing under put-upon propriety and agreeable manners", but the society in which propriety and "morals" mean that anyone (female) who is restless, anyone (female) who wants a divorce, anyone (female) who has a fling, is trash, and suspicion can be cast on anyone (female), also, who has a sense of humour, a ready tongue or some consideration, when it comes to marriage, on the wealth of her suitor.
No, you have to be a doormat. There's your high moral character.