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" Sheppard's name operated like magic on the crowd. “Now I suppose Brendon understands exactly what you mean,” he remarked. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. “Listen,” she said. “Thank you.
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This video was uploaded to g-zaporozhe.info on 16-07-2024 23:58:01
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