Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ’ It was thus in stony silence that the pair traversed the short distance to Stratton Street, where Roding knocked on the major’s door and entered a pleasant woodpanelled hall, with his prisoner firmly in tow. Why am I here—thirty years of loneliness? Because I know women, the good and the bad; and because I could not have the good, I would not take the bad. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked.
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