What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. . “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. He shook his head. I've foiled him hitherto, and will foil him yet. It is quite a descent from the clouds, isn’t it?” “I will accept that,” Anna said, “as accounting for the surprise.
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