“Homely?” “Well, yeah, that’s what he said. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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