" "Uh-huh. ‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone. Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. . ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death.
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