“They’d better not,” said Hetty. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Tell me I haven’t heard. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. " "Why, what the devil's this?" vociferated Jonathan, looking up. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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