domingo, 6 de diciembre de 2015

It might be too late... (open now)

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marshal, who plays billiar ypoj ds so tranquilly at the moment of going into action. Meanwhile the uproar redoubles. With the roar of the cannon is mingled the tearing sound of the mitrailleuses, the rattle of musketry. A red steam, black at the edges, rises around th ypoj e lawns. The whole park is on fire. The terrified peacocks and phea ypoj sants shriek in ypoj he aviary; the Arabian horses, smelling the powder, rear in the stables. The headquarters begins to be excited. Despatch after despatch. Couriers ar ypoj rive at full speed. They ask for the marshal. The marshal cannot be seen. Did I not tell you that nothing could prevent him from finishing his game? "It is your turn, captain." ypoj But the captain is distraught. That is what it is to be young. Behold he loses his head, forgets his tactics, and makes two runs in success ypoj ion, which almost give him the game. Thereupon the marshal becomes furious. Surpris ypoj e and indignation animate his manly face. Just at this moment a horse ridden at a hard gallop rushes into the courtyar ypoj d. An aid ypoj e-de-camp covered with mud for ypoj ces his way past the sentries and ascends the steps at one bound. "Marshal, marshal!" You should see how he is greeted. Puffing with anger and red as a rooster, the mars ypoj hal appears at the window, ypoj his billiard-cue in his hand:


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