As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. His voice now had lost its ironies. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ” The detective turned again to Anna. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. The longing to talk to someone! But in the end she had gone to her room without giving in to the craving. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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This video was uploaded to brazilianportuguese.biz on 07-06-2024 10:20:09
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