What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. ” He closed the door partially behind himself. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. ’ ‘Oh, don’t you?’ Gerald said grimly.
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