For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Sailors would leave them at the trader's. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down.
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This video was uploaded to adiszena.com on 12-05-2024 22:19:10
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