But I never found any truth in the saying. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. “No! No no no no no no no!” She ran towards them, her arms outstretched, but he blocked her. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. ’ ‘No, sister, I know that, but—’ ‘You needn’t tell me. Teddy overtook her, a little out of breath, his innocent face flushed, his straw-colored hair disordered. That’s all about it.
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