They were silent for a time. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. Hopefully. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. She became aware of the Scotch student regarding her with stupendous amazement, a tea-cup poised in one hairy hand and his faceted glasses showing a various enlargement of segments of his eye. So she built a shrine. Wood.
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