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She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. She interrupted. Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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This video was uploaded to porndeutsch.top on 27-06-2024 01:38:01
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