There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Sheppard. Because their human lives were so short, the happily married had no time to get sick of one another. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. I was extremely subtle—in fact, as devious as Melusine. You and the girl have made it soft for him, and I'm going to make it soft for him. I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. Walpole for your apprehension. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. "I was right," replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable.
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