What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. We wore invisible chains and invisible blinkers. Smith's melody had subsided. And I'll have supper with you. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard.
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