We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that lightness and delicacy which the world demands--the moral world, that has, perhaps, no particular objection to vice, but an insuperable repugnance to hearing vice called by its proper name. There are things we do and know perfectly well in Vanity Fair, though we never speak of them: as the Ahrimanians worship the devil, but don't mention him: and a polite public will no more bear to read an authentic description of vice than a truly refined English or American female will permit the word breeches to be pronounced in her chaste hearing. And yet, madam, both are walking the world before our faces every day, without much shocking us. If you were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you would have! It is only when their naughty names are called out that your modesty has any occasion to show alarm or sense of outrage, and it has been the wish of the present writer, all through this story, deferentially to submit to the fashion at present prevailing, and only to hint at the existence of wickedness in a light, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be offended. I defy any one to say that our Becky, who has certainly some vices, has not been presented to the public in a perfectly genteel and inoffensive manner. In describing this Siren, singing and smiling, coaxing and cajoling, the author, with modest pride, asks his readers all round, has he once forgotten the laws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tail above water? No! Those who like may peep down under waves that are pretty transparent and see it writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongst bones, or curling round corpses; but above the waterline, I ask, has not everything been proper, agreeable, and decorous, and has any the most squeamish immoralist in Vanity Fair a right to cry fie? When, however, the Siren disappears and dives below, down among the dead men, the water of course grows turbid over her, and it is labour lost to look into it ever so curiously. 
We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that delicacy which the world demands - the moral world, that has no particular objection to vice, but hates hearing it named. There are things we know perfectly well in Vanity Fair, though we never speak of them: and a polite public will no more read an authentic description of vice than a truly refined English female will permit the word breeches to be said in her hearing. And yet, madam, both are walking the world before our faces every day. If you were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you would have! It is only when their naughty names are called out that you show any outrage.
I have submitted to this fashion all through this story, only hinting at the existence of wickedness in a light, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be offended. I defy anyone to say that our Becky has not been presented in a perfectly genteel and inoffensive way. In describing this Siren, singing and smiling, coaxing and cajoling, I modestly ask - have I once forgotten the laws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tail above water? No! Those who wish may peep down under the waves and see it writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy; but above the waterline, everything has been decorous.
When, however, the Sirens disappear and dive below, down among the dead men, the water grows cloudy, and it is pointless to peer into it. 