What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “How fortunate I am, Miss Pellissier! All day I have been hoping that I might run across you. The curtain came festooning slowly down, the music ceased, the lights in the auditorium glowed out, and Ann Veronica woke out of her confused dream of involuntary and commanding love in a glory of sound and colors to discover that Ramage was sitting close beside her with one hand resting lightly on her waist. ‘As Madame Valade, you will be an émigré, not a nun. I meant mischief.
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