I’m writing this on an app on my phone, on the bus. What would Jane Austen have thought, carefully hiding her manuscripts, shuffling papers whenever she heard a creak at the door? She could just have pretended to be texting Cassandra, while really she was writing about Elizabeth Bennett. Elizabeth on Facebook, stalking the Pemberly page. Mr. Darcy coming on chat, the box opening with an unexpected “Hello.” Virtual frisson.