Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. And in some incomprehensible way, Ramage was confused with Capes; she had a grotesque disposition to persuade herself that this was really Capes who surrounded her, as it were, with wings of desire. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. It would be very good to be Capes’ friend. Manning, with entirely suitable emotion.
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