A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. A young man was playing the banjo. “Better state of mind,” she gasped. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxNy4xNjkuNjggLSAwOS0wNi0yMDI0IDEzOjUzOjE3IC0gMTEyMTgyMTI5NQ==
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