She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQuMTQxLjExNSAtIDIyLTA5LTIwMjQgMDM6MjQ6MTAgLSAxNDA1MDY1MTEw
This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 20-09-2024 09:58:13
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