Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. She wished she had not stood up. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. However, it don't signify. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Until the last moment she was afraid. Wood. Silk. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDEzLjU5LjE3OS40OCAtIDE3LTA3LTIwMjQgMjI6NDQ6MTggLSAxNTAzNTk4MjA1
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