As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. Unless he has dealings with the devil, he could never have done this alone. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. ‘Eh bien. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford.
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