‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of
depression in his bearing. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor
and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat
slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in
the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were
now. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the
thought of the island was repellent. She alone of them all knew that
he was on the first leg of the terrible journey to the beach. She launched into a stuffy Partita
89
and played it too fast.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ1LjE4Ni4yMDQgLSAwNC0wNy0yMDI0IDA5OjE4OjU0IC0gNDIxOTgwNTc4
This video was uploaded to kooplokaalmontferland.info on 30-06-2024 12:48:06