Easily. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. “You’ll do no such thing, Sheila. In some cases they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t. You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment.
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