What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ‘If you had told him that I would rather die than see him, he would not have come. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. "A missioner! That illuminates everything. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate.
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