She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. White. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. It was obvious that he had waited for her. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness.
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