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The tension was palpable. I’m not Gerald, remember. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. ‘Gérard!’ Before she could react to this new menace, the captain spun round. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. After all, life had still its pulsations.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 08-07-2024 06:47:31
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