" Mr. ” He looked at her with white, set face. She can't last long. Mr. Gerald instantly took her arm and guided her back to her chair. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. It’s these damned novels. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man.
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