In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. I know you’re young but I think I, no, I know that I love you. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. And the less “anything” happened the better. I have always hated it. Mr. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ3LjEwMy42MSAtIDE2LTA3LTIwMjQgMDQ6Mjg6MjEgLSAxNzMyMjY0MDYx
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