‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.
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This video was uploaded to ssibasmatirice.com on 29-05-2024 01:05:48
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