What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. "Then I advise you to look sharply after him, Mr. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said.
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