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The evenings were dulcet and soft. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Why not? Quite willing.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 27-09-2024 01:28:26