And Mr. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.
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