She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. And grasping the thick iron rod, she pushed with all her force against it, while Jack seconded her efforts from within. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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