You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. \"Lucy?\" He called her as she turned. This also struck her as odd. Wood. No one was allowed to pass along Newgate Street, which was barricaded and protected by a strong constabulary force. Mr. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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