She is a magician sought by all. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. “Please come home. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. “See you at school tomorrow. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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