I feel a mixture of beast and uncle. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Mr. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. He had not remembered her as looking so small.
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This video was uploaded to borgodeltaglio.com on 20-07-2024 01:39:33
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