He had not had time to aim the pistol. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. “Hold on, she’s right here. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ’ ‘I have no game. In an instant, she turned on him. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyMC41OC4xNzkgLSAyOC0wNi0yMDI0IDAzOjQ1OjIzIC0gMjEzNDMxODcwMA==
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