‘You will have to prove it, you know,’ Gerald said quietly. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExNy4xMDIuODAgLSAyMi0wNy0yMDI0IDIzOjU3OjE2IC0gMTgwNzkzODA3
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