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He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She hated the manor. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. He had an objective now. It is safe. She had remained patently unavailable to him. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. There was a pleasant numbness in the bottle; that's why I went to it. Were the parents agreeable? Were they of age? Had the license been procured? But here, in a far country, only the velvet manacles of wedlock were necessary.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 18-09-2024 09:35:00
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