I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. "What's this here kinchen in for?" asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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This video was uploaded to betosfer.xyz on 19-10-2024 17:23:56
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