She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. . And, dragging Mrs. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. No offence, I hope. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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