“Your sex is a terrible fraud. You should go home today and get some rest. ” Rhea whispered. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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