What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “They make me want to shout,” said Mr. “That’s a weird name. ‘Jacques?’ she called. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. ‘Well! I hadn’t no notion as he’d got hisself married again.
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