Sepulchre's clock struck eight. One cannot trust any man at all. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. She shuddered.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 08-09-2024 00:59:55
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