Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “What?” He replied. He held in his hands many threads. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still.
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