Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. ” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it.
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