Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. For a time Spurlock did not move. "Who are the others?" "Let me see. I've an idea it'll be that long before the chap gets up.
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This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 05-07-2024 20:01:49
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