She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. Anna had told me that he carried always with him this bogus marriage certificate. 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.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjE0LjE2IC0gMzAtMDYtMjAyNCAwNzoyOTowMiAtIDk0Mzc2ODA0Ng==
This video was uploaded to jandlonmark.org on 28-06-2024 17:46:20
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