‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. That was something in his favour.
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