“Let’s go home. “Not really. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. The doctor nodded. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly.
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