“That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. It is what I have done.
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