” “I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement. She is very bright. \"I'll have to call and tell Cathy. ’ ‘What?’ uttered Gerald, startled. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. A stomacher, fastened by imitationdiamond buckles, girded that part of her person, which should have been a waist; a coral necklace encircled her throat, and a few black patches, or mouches, as they were termed, served as a foil to the bloom of her cheek and chin. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud.
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