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Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 02-10-2024 02:19:23