’ He received a glare from his captive. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. " "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. Stanley, having pretended to linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and when Veronica tapped he answered through the locked door, “Go away, Vee! I’m busy,” and made a lapidary’s wheel buzz loudly. “Hey you,” he said affectionately.
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