What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. “It makes one feel quite awkward to mention such a thing, but after all I think that it is best for both parties. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face. ” Her aunt answered in a low voice: “I was engaged to him, dear, for seven years, and then he died.
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