“We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. Why do you look so sad?” She opened her eyes wider and stifled her emotions. Perhaps you will explain the state of panic into which I seem to have thrown you. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar.
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