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The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. “Where?” “To that ball. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church. Wild never was the associate of thieves. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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