“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. I rather think they have kicked him, from the tone of some of the letters. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. You will make her suffer. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. " "Lord bless us! you alarm me.
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