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Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. “I think I can tell you something which may be very good news for you presently. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “I do mean that,” she declared. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. Her desires were not for riches. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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