“TROUSERS!” she whispered. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. She remained on guard.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 08-09-2024 17:23:39
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