"He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. She stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women. She came with such force that she feared he might be pushed out from 193 the contractions, which did not happen. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. "You forgot your lunch," she said. “You would be wise to loosen your purse-strings, Gianfrancesco. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ4LjE0NC4xMzkgLSAxMC0wNi0yMDI0IDAyOjA5OjU0IC0gMTU3NjgwMjYzOA==
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