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I I think most women would be better off if they were like Sister Loretto." "They would not. Stop talking rot, Becky, and take that thing off your head. It makes you look like a nun." "I know. I saw myself in the glass. I don't mind looking like a nun, Randy." "Well, I mind. Turn your head and I'll take out that pin." "Don't be silly, Randy." He persisted. "Keep still while I take it out "
Becky, in a lace cap and a robe that was delicately blue, sat in a big chair with a low table in front of her. There were white roses on the table in a silver bowl. The Judge had sent them to her. The Judge had for the women of his family a feeling that was almost youthfully romantic, and which was, unquestionably, old-fashioned.
You seen for yourself, if it was not for Aunt Becky begging him nearly on her knees, how he would have treated us that time with the mortgage. Better, I say, Izzy should stay with his papa in business or get out West like he wants, and where he can't keep such fine white hands to gamble with." Miss Shongut slanted deeper until her slim body was a direct hypotenuse to the chair.
But just as the children at Queen's Crawley went round the room where the body of their father lay if ever Becky had these thoughts, she was accustomed to walk round them and not look in. She eluded them and despised them or at least she was committed to the other path from which retreat was now impossible.
Amelia was the only daughter of John Sedley, a wealthy London stock broker, and upon leaving school was to take her place in fashionable society. Being the sweetest, most kind-hearted girl in the world, Amelia invited Becky to visit her in London before taking up her new duties as governess; which invitation Becky was only too glad to accept.
Then, since Aunt Claudia made no sign, she went down-stairs to the kitchen. Mandy, the cook, who had a complexion like an old copper cent, and who wore a white Dutch cap in place of the traditional bandana, was cutting corn from the cob for fritters. "If you'll make a cup of tea," Becky said, "I'll take it up to Aunt Claudia. She's lying down." "Is you goin' wid her?" Mandy asked. "To New York?
"They used to worship cats in Egypt, Belinda," Anne went on, drowsily, "and when they died they preserved them in sweet spices and made mummies of them " But Belinda had lost interest. The rusty red robin was busy with a worm, and she saw her chance. As she sneaked across the grass, Anne sat up, "I'm ashamed of you, Belinda," she said. "Becky, go bring her back!"
"Are you there, Becky?" called Anne, peering into the darkness, and with a flap and a flutter, Becky swooped from the top of the bookcase, where she had been perched for a half-hour, waiting for Anne to wake. Anne's bookcase was the one thing of value in the little house.
The gold is, or is not, in the fastnesses of the earth as before, but where, oh, where, is the lean woman of lineage and the fat woman of money? The lean woman had quality. She was the daughter of somebody who had done something, but, unlike Becky Sharp, she had not been successful in living richly in San Francisco on nothing a year.
With Becky Sharpe, with Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and with Esmond, with Warrington, Pendennis, and the Major, with Colonel Newcombe, and with Barry Lynon, he must have lived in perpetual intercourse. Therefore he has made these personages real to us. Among all our novelists his style is the purest, as to my ear it is also the most harmonious.
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