The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. Half after six. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. But this is the first time I ever sailed on any one of the three. Hear me, adorable girl! You know not the extent of my devotion. A sob was strangled in her throat.
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This video was uploaded to mine-tec.com on 13-07-2024 18:39:01
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