What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are lighter than old Nab's. ” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. “I must repeat,” Sir John said, “that I much regret disturbing you at such an unseemly hour.
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