What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father.
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