When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. A slight cough uttered by Jonathan at the moment awakened the echoes of the place, and was returned in hollow reverberations.
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This video was uploaded to smicorporate.biz on 05-06-2024 11:09:09
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