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Barbara Cartland died. Now, I'll bet that ninety-nine point nine percent of you will never have read a Barbara Cartland novel. <hushed voice>Romance!!</hushed voice>. I think that I survived the turmoil of the seventh and eight grade simply by devouring enormous number of her novels. The woman was a prolific author. I don't know who among Cartland, Stephen King or how to edit a page Joyce Carol Oates would come out the victor in count of the sheer volume of words. They're lovely novels populated with how to edit a page breathy, innocent (or quite stupid), beautiful blond maidens who were typically the unfortunately recently deceased vicar's daughter. Cast out into the cruel world of Regency or Victorian England, she would be swept away in some impossible intrigue into the arms of the hero. Tall, dark, strong, titled, handsome, and brilliant, he would never consider taking advantage of this poor diamond in the rough by having his evil way with her. Nope, he would marry her and the novel would end just as he was about to show her just how blissful true romantic love (no snickering) could be.
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