What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. \" She looked at Mike. "Jack," said Wild, with a glance of malignant triumph, "I will now tell you what I have done. Don't strip me quite. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. "Been to those places?" "No. ‘Looks like it. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it.
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