What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. "I shall like to call you that. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. ” “We won’t go to any of these City places. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity.
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