” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. In his way he was critical. Jack was not half your age when he died. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Tell me all that happened, one sister-woman to another. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ3LjUxLjE0NiAtIDIyLTA3LTIwMjQgMTE6MjU6MTAgLSA3MDEwNDA2OQ==
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