Consternation gripped him. " O'Higgins extracted a cigar from a pocket and inspected it. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. “Not much.
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