People, nobody, can do as they like in this world. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ3LjQ4LjIzMCAtIDE0LTA2LTIwMjQgMDY6MTc6MjcgLSAxMjA2MDcxODkx
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