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Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "Anything else?" "Your waistcoat. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit. You may command my services at any time. “Why?” He inquired.

Video ID: Q0NCb3QvMi4wIChodHRwczovL2NvbW1vbmNyYXdsLm9yZy9mYXEvKSAtIDQ0LjE5Ny4yMzEuMjExIC0gMTMtMDQtMjAyNCAxMjoyMDowNyAtIDQ4MTQ3NTc4Nw==

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