She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “When are you going away?” He asked. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 12:55:45