‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe.
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