The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. It was bleeding again. It could not go on much longer, her luck. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ1LjgzLjIyMiAtIDEwLTA2LTIwMjQgMTQ6NDE6MzcgLSA2NTYwMjk4
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