Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. I never could.
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This video was uploaded to ineel.net on 04-07-2024 20:00:23
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