What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. And, yet, I don't know. Norris, and do not return till Father Spencer arrives. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate.
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