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‘I know you, Gerald. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. “There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. "Now, tell me why they brought you here?" "I came to see you, dear mother!" answered Jack. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. Only I just want him. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible.
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