She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. He turned, expecting to see his wife.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyMC4yMi43MyAtIDAzLTA2LTIwMjQgMTc6MjY6MzMgLSAxOTczNDk3Nzg2
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