I admit it. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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This video was uploaded to extremesport8.info on 29-05-2024 04:56:52
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