"So you did," replied the prize-fighter. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. Around her neck was a little gold chain. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. “Come,” she said.
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