“And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. His car was there. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. But we can’t help noticing. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him. My reception at West Kensington you know of. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had.
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