"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. . ’ ‘It is you who will get the head blown off,’ threatened the young lady fiercely. . She gloried in it: he needed her. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. He always followed by showering her with kisses, embracing her tightly as she squirmed and giggled. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ4LjExMi4yNSAtIDMwLTA2LTIwMjQgMDA6NTc6MDUgLSAxMjA2ODQ1MTg2
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