The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. He turned back at once. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain.
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