“I wrote it for you. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. But I shall take care of Ruth, work for her and fight for her. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. "You poor child!" said Prudence.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExOS4xNjEuMTggLSAxMC0wNi0yMDI0IDAxOjU1OjEzIC0gMTY3NzQyMjg5MA==
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