“My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. "Get up, then," said Jack, freeing his foot from the stirrup. They don’t count, and I don’t care. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish.
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