’ ‘Did no one know, then?’ ‘No, for the vicomte, we learned later, wrote to General Lord Charvill in pursuit of his sister. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Wood. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused.
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