She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. And nothing to tell her where to begin. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. “Please have a seat.
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