She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. ‘Idiot. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. With a small saw, conveyed to me a few days since by Thames Darrell, which I contrived to conceal upon my person, I removed a spike in the hatch, and, with the aid of some other friends, worked my way out. “I have heard of you, of course,” Anna answered hesitatingly, “but——” “You cannot imagine what I have come to see you about.
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