The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. It drives one mad at times. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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