She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. Lord, I am sixty. Wood," returned Jackson, with the utmost composure; "you're a headborough, and a loyal subject of King George. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “There is a secret.
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