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They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. It is dull—deadly dull. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife.
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This video was uploaded to tructiepcauthongthuongde.org on 30-09-2024 07:37:19