What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. “You are late,” she murmured. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. So it was with Gosse, who had wanted to marry her. But it's confounded inconvenient.
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