She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. “Happened! Oh, many things,” she declared indolently. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. We dine at seven-thirty. I don’t classify.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxOS4xNTYuMTYxIC0gMTMtMDYtMjAyNCAxMTozNzozMCAtIDEzOTc0NzMyNzI=
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