The truth at once flashed across his mind. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. And you are something of a heroine, too. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. . But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. “Okay, Mom. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners.
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