"Caught!" shouted the head-turnkey. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. In vain Wood protested his innocence. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Here you only waste your time.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 16-05-2024 02:09:31
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