‘Well, we’ll just go on up and have a look at this here passage, missie, shall we?’ ‘Have I not been saying so?’ snapped Melusine, exasperated. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. There was no rush. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. .
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