What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. “I had lunch very late to-day, and I did not get home in time for dinner. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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