What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. " Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled. She must weigh her situation. Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him.
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