She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. The sight o' your 'andsome phiz allys does me good. Eh bien, she must use her tongue against him.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMjEuMTA2LjIwNCAtIDAzLTA2LTIwMjQgMTE6MTg6NTMgLSAxMjc0Njg2NTA4
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