Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. Anyhow, that is how things are.
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This video was uploaded to jandlonmark.org on 01-07-2024 04:29:40
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