What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. And this time the departure had a tremendous effect of finality. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. ” “Would not do what?” “Well, follow buses from Russell Square to Hampstead. " "Did you discover any trace of footsteps?" inquired Jack eagerly. Today you shall promise me that you will pull no more of these stunts.
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