Then, there's Mr. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief. It rather astonished him. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. "If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising, "I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father. "I shall be obliged to hang him to keep him company.
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