“What do you think of that?” he asked. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. To-morrow they will know the truth. “Michelle, I cannot give you my blessing. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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