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The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. He gripped the window-sill behind him.
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This video was uploaded to thiruvalluvan.com on 22-09-2024 12:14:24
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