"It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. He grasped Lucilla’s elbow. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. “Poor old daddy! I wonder if he’ll spend much on the fatted calf?.
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