She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar.
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