She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. But her request was unheeded. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Her cheeks were aflame. But they been good to me, they have, sir. Or, if this goodlooking young fellow will only say the word, I'll go with him. It begins with that queer piccolo solo.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExNy43NC4yMzcgLSAxMy0wNi0yMDI0IDAzOjQ4OjMxIC0gOTkyMzQ4Mzg1
This video was uploaded to erdmanporsche.com on 09-06-2024 20:34:57
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