The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. It never has had. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ’ Alderley glanced round the bedchamber.
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