What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. The room seemed a vacuum. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Relief flooded her. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks.
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