What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. "How very fortunate it is," he observed, "that I happened to call upon Mr. Acne sprayed her cheeks in a fine red spatter where it intermingled with brown freckles. ’ The old man simply stared at her.
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