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E. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. Something in her tone made him look up. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. His curiosity put itself into a question. People running, screaming, hiding. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver.
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This video was uploaded to usavacationcenters.com on 19-09-2024 09:25:28
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