Manning, her aunt and father, neighbors, customs, traditions, forces. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand.
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