He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 03-06-2024 17:42:13
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