Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. There is a place—This isn’t the place.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 11-09-2024 02:25:09
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