She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping.
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