The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. He was caked with dried muck. A father is in debt, we'll say.
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This video was uploaded to adiszena.com on 30-05-2024 13:28:19
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