“We suspect that Mary is alive, and we think she will try to contact you if she ever tracks you down. “Dear John,” she whispered. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She expanded that.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTMzLjEzNS4xODQgLSAxNi0wNi0yMDI0IDIxOjQ5OjMxIC0gMTM5NzUxMDc5NA==
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