What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. " "What's the matter?" remarked Kneebone, addressing Sheppard, who, as he caught the single but piercing eye of Jackson fixed upon him, started and trembled. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. . “It’s settled.
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