Lord Steyne Quotes in Vanity Fair
His wife and family returned to this country and took up their abode at Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the European continent, and was gazetted to Brazil. But people knew better; he never returned from that Brazil expedition—never died there—never lived there—never was there at all. He was nowhere; he was gone out altogether. ‘Brazil,’ said one gossip to another, with a grin—‘Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio de Janeiro is a cottage surrounded by four walls, and George Gaunt is accredited to a keeper, who has invested him with the order of the Strait-Waistcoat.’ These are the kinds of epitaphs which men pass over one another in Vanity Fair.
‘Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part,’ said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little curtsey ever seen.
All her lies and her schemes, and her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy.
If we were to give a full account of her proceedings during a couple of years that followed after the Curzon Street catastrophe, there might be some reason for people to say this book was improper. The actions of very vain, heartless, pleasure-seeking people are very often improper (as are many of yours, my friend with the grave face and spotless reputation—but that is merely by the way); and what are those of a woman without faith—or love—or character? And I am inclined to think that there was a period in Mrs Becky's life when she was seized, not by remorse, but by a kind of despair, and absolutely neglected her person and did not even care for her reputation.
Lord Steyne Quotes in Vanity Fair
His wife and family returned to this country and took up their abode at Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the European continent, and was gazetted to Brazil. But people knew better; he never returned from that Brazil expedition—never died there—never lived there—never was there at all. He was nowhere; he was gone out altogether. ‘Brazil,’ said one gossip to another, with a grin—‘Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio de Janeiro is a cottage surrounded by four walls, and George Gaunt is accredited to a keeper, who has invested him with the order of the Strait-Waistcoat.’ These are the kinds of epitaphs which men pass over one another in Vanity Fair.
‘Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part,’ said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little curtsey ever seen.
All her lies and her schemes, and her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy.
If we were to give a full account of her proceedings during a couple of years that followed after the Curzon Street catastrophe, there might be some reason for people to say this book was improper. The actions of very vain, heartless, pleasure-seeking people are very often improper (as are many of yours, my friend with the grave face and spotless reputation—but that is merely by the way); and what are those of a woman without faith—or love—or character? And I am inclined to think that there was a period in Mrs Becky's life when she was seized, not by remorse, but by a kind of despair, and absolutely neglected her person and did not even care for her reputation.
