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She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. Spurling, squeezing Jack's arm, and pushing him towards the door, "and, don't come here again. It had not tasted good since 1350. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food.
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This video was uploaded to tructiepcauthongthuongde.org on 29-06-2024 23:11:45
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