“Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. But for now, I’d like to turn in, if you don’t mind. That glove is still preserved. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. I don't believe he is much past forty. Why didn’t he die?” Anna sprang to her feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 05-07-2024 17:19:50
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