. CHAPTER XXIII. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “I believe that you are quite safe. . I came to see you on my own account. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. “But Sebastian! I need them!” He smiled, not a smile of comfort, but a smile of terrible menace.
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