Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. Lost from all protection, all her family dead—as are mine. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. I defy you to explain it away. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. “Yes.
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