I am suspected of having shot the man. Take it, I tell you. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. “Very,” and cracked a walnut appreciatively. His chin was angular and his lips were 16 small, his mouth tiny and refined. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. But she did not in the least want to do that. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExNy4xMDIuNjMgLSAxMC0wNi0yMDI0IDAxOjU1OjA3IC0gMzIyOTk1NDIw
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