Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. She pushed at the closer of the two soldiers bearing the precious burden. ” “That sounds more promising,” Lady Lescelles declared. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. Two persons possessing a more comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. Sheppard—becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually—provided he escaped the gallows—would descend to her son.
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