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There was a young lad ahead of her. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. You called yourself a murderess. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.

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This video was uploaded to g-zaporozhe.info on 06-06-2024 07:41:52

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