It was less will than education. A wrathful God was watching him. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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