Is that it? I thought this very pretty. Sheppard from his elevated position. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face.
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