’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. She slipped silently inside the door as he went inside a 12 putrid little bathroom to urinate. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. I must not let you go again. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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