. . The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. She indicated the captain who had retired behind the sofa. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled to the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who, instantly possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head. As pretty as its owner.
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