What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. "Granted it were as you say, Jack," said Wild;—"and I sha'n't take the trouble to contradict you—the estates would be yours hereafter. She always left the table when they began to smoke. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. Bring me food, a man, hurry!” She placed the stone back over the crypt to hide the evidence of what she had uncovered. Never mind, I’ve got plenty. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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