There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. "Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt in a savage tone. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 01-10-2024 00:19:08