"Thanks to you," said the doctor. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Lucia liked the doctor though, and he seemed to be very fond of her too. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. ’ Gerald eyed her with interest. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise.
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