I too can see it. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. "Is it a bargain?" "Take half of my estate—take all—my life, if you will—I am weary of it!" cried Trenchard passionately. "Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. All at once it came to him what a fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly suppositional. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. We were only—les autres.
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