“It was poison—why not?” she answered. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. He has a very summary mode of dealing with refractory persons, I assure you. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. She had found that proof. On searching the coat, he found, amongst other matters, a mask, a key, and a pocket-book. He’s got flowers.
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