It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. It was a long walk she had to undertake, even if she had endured no previous fatigue, but feeble as she was, it was almost more than she could accomplish. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. The Wastrel did not relish this. It had been very peaceful in the little cave for countless years. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyNS4xNzUuMjMgLSAxNC0wNy0yMDI0IDA0OjMzOjI3IC0gNDUzMjgyMDI5
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