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She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 06-06-2024 09:12:23
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