Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. “I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. He dropped the key on the counterpane. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTM3LjIxNC4xOTQgLSAwOS0wNi0yMDI0IDE0OjUxOjUyIC0gMjEyNzMzNTcwOA==
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