With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. It was an impulse. No doubt they've all been rejected; but he couldn't throw them overboard. So that it seemed to her the whole world had changed —the very light of it had changed. She could not say who, not yet. “Mr. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. But, perhaps, you'll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we may arrange our accounts before we start. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxNi40Ljc5IC0gMTAtMDYtMjAyNCAwMToyMjoyNCAtIDg4NjMzNzUzOQ==
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