” “But is that really so?” said Ann Veronica. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. "Rather in the way. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. It was impossible. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh.
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