(Fifteen pounds! And she wanted forty!) Part 4 It was, perhaps, the natural consequence of a long and tiring and exciting day that Ann Veronica should pass a broken and distressful night, a night in which the noble and self-subduing resolutions of Canongate displayed themselves for the first time in an atmosphere of almost lurid dismay. Burn your palette and your easel. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath.
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