His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. " "Take hence this boy, then," rejoined Trenchard; "his looks unman me. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. ’ A derisive snort greeted this passage. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. Born on a South Sea island, she said.
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