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He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. “Where are they?” She looked around. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 29-09-2024 15:03:27