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What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. My death, probably. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. Spurling was standing near the fire superintending some culinary preparation; but she no sooner perceived him, than hastily quitting her occupation, she elbowed a way for him and the knight through the crowd, and ushered them, with much ceremony, into an inner room, where they found the objects of their search, Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok, seated at a small table, quietly smoking. ’ ‘No, perhaps not,’ Gerald agreed with a smile.
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