The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. You'll do.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTM1LjIxOS45MyAtIDAzLTEwLTIwMjQgMTY6MzQ6MjQgLSAxODA3NzcwNzg=
This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 02-10-2024 23:02:25