A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. Yet she held her tongue. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 08-06-2024 14:34:03
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