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There he stands. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. “I have brought you very nearly to my door. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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