So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. ’ ‘Woof!’ Sergeant Trodger’s eyes fairly popped out of his head, and he seized his prisoner’s arm again. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. We two. “Ciao, Fragolina. Mr. ” They loitered under trees, they sat on mossy banks they gossiped on friendly benches, they came back to lunch at the “Star and Garter,” and talked their afternoon away in the garden that looks out upon the crescent of the river. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. .
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