No matter. He died in the war. A lot of girls have had it in for him but he must be picky or something because he didn’t go to Junior Prom even though I know he got asked. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Having secured this implement, he burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns generally spring into the clockfaces, when in pursuit of harlequin in the pantomime,—that is, back foremost,— broke into a fit of loud and derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the boards. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyNC4zOC45OSAtIDA5LTA2LTIwMjQgMDc6MDc6MTMgLSAxNTUwNjYzMzU0
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