And, I shame to say, she would not have got credit had they not believed her to be guilty. It was the sight of the Marquis of Steyne's carriage-lamps at her door, contemplated by Raggles, burning in the blackness of midnight, "that kep him up," as he afterwards said, that even more than Rebecca's arts and coaxings.
And so--guiltless very likely--she was writhing and pushing onward towards what they call "a position in society," and the servants were pointing at her as lost and ruined. So you see Molly, the housemaid, of a morning, watching a spider in the doorpost lay his thread and laboriously crawl up it, until, tired of the sport, she raises her broom and sweeps away the thread and the artificer.
A day or two before Christmas, Becky, her husband and her son made ready and went to pass the holidays at the seat of their ancestors at Queen's Crawley. Becky would have liked to leave the little brat behind, and would have done so but for Lady Jane's urgent invitations to the youngster, and the symptoms of revolt and discontent which Rawdon manifested at her neglect of her son. "He's the finest boy in England," the father said in a tone of reproach to her, "and you don't seem to care for him, Becky, as much as you do for your spaniel. He shan't bother you much; at home he will be away from you in the nursery, and he shall go outside on the coach with me."
"Where you go yourself because you want to smoke those filthy cigars," replied Mrs. Rawdon.
"I remember when you liked 'em though," answered the husband.

She would not have got credit had they not believed her to be guilty. It was the sight of the Marquis of Steyne's carriage-lamps at her door, seen by Raggles, that kept his hopes up.
And so - guiltless very likely - she was writhing and pushing onward towards "a position in society," while the servants were pointing at her as lost and ruined.
Just before Christmas, Becky, her husband and her son went to pass the holidays at Queen's Crawley. Becky would have liked to leave the little brat behind but for Lady Jane's urgent invitations to the youngster, and Rawdon's reproaches at her neglect of her son.
"He's the finest boy in England," the father said, "and you don't seem to care for him, Becky, as much as you do for your spaniel. He shan't bother you much; he shall go outside on the coach with me."
"Where you go when you want to smoke those filthy cigars," replied Mrs. Rawdon.
"I remember when you liked 'em though."
