Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. ” He stated. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. ‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones.
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