What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. " "Do you mock me?" cried Jack, levelling a pistol at him. The roof was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs of heaven. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt.
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