. ’ ‘True enough,’ nodded Martha sadly. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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