What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. " "It matters not, Norris," replied Lady Trafford: "I would rather die on the road, than be exposed to another such scene as I have just encountered. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek.
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