What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth.
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