Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. All the world over a wedding procession arouses laughter and derision in the bystanders. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. “You poor little girl!” he cried. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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