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" "That's not my game. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. To this day he and every one else thinks that he married Anna. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. " "Or the flat stones in the meadows, teeming with life underneath.
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