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What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. His eyes never left her face. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. . His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. " "I am here in Canton," she replied, simply. “What are you doing?” he asked.
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