What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. ’ ‘Was it yours?’ Insulted beyond bearing, Melusine lost her temper. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. There you will be, in an inner temple. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Maggot.
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