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She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. Her anger died and she eyed him. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me.
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This video was uploaded to linkbaronet4.com on 01-06-2024 19:50:02
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