The part missing is all in part one (and someone has commented with the missing text on the part one video). The last page of part one is read at the start of this video.
The part left out between p.1 and p.2: Anything might have happened to you, Louise, anything at all, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Then there was another saint, said Mother St Justine, she lived later on but still in Italy, or it was in Spain. Italy is white pillars and green water. Spain is hot sun on stones, France is a lady with black hair wearing a white dress because Louise was born in France fifteen years ago, and my mother, whom I must forget and pray for as though she were dead, though she is living, liked to dress in white. No one spoke of her now that Christophine had left us to live with her son. I seldom saw my stepfather. He seemed to dislike Jamaica, Spanish Town in particular, and was often away for months. One hot afternoon in July my aunt told me that she was going to England for a year. Her health was not good and she needed a change. As she talked she was working at a patchwork counterpane. The diamond-shaped pieces of silk melted one into the other, red, blue, purple, green, yellow, all one shimmering colour. Hours and hours she had spent on it and it was nearly finished. Would I be lonely? she asked me and I said ‘No’, looking at the colours. Hours and hours and hours I thought. This convent was my refuge, a place of sunshine and of death where very early in the morning the clap of a wooden signal woke the nine of us who slept in the long dormitory. We woke to see Sister Marie Augustine sitting, serene and neat, bolt upright in a wooden chair. The long brown room was full of gold sunlight and shadows of trees moving quietly. I learnt to say very quickly as the others did, ‘offer up all the prayers, works and sufferings of this day.’ But what about happiness, I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh happiness of course, happiness, well. But I soon forgot about happiness, running down the stairs to the big stone bath where we splashed about wearing long grey cotton chemises which reached to our ankles. The smell of soap as you cautiously soaped yourself under the chemise, a trick to be learned, dressing with modesty, another trick. Great splashes of sunlight as we run up the wooden steps of the refectory. Hot coffee and rolls and melting butter. But after the meal, now and at the hour of our death, and at midday and at six in the evening, now and at the hour of our death. Let perpetual light shine on them. This is for my mother, I would think, wherever her soul is wandering, for it has left her body. Then I remembered how she hated a strong light and loved the cool and the shade. It is a different light they told me. Still, I would not say it. Soon we were back in the shifting shadows outside, more beautiful than any perpetual light could be, and soon I learnt to gabble without thinking as the others did. About changing now and the hour of our death for that is all we have. Everything was brightness, or dark. The wall, the blazing colours of the flowers in the garden, the nuns’ habits were bright, but their veils, the Crucifix hanging from their waists, the shadow of the trees, were black. That was how it was, light and dark, sun and shadow, Heaven and Hell, for one of the nuns knew all about Hell and who does not. But another one knew about Heaven and the attributes of the blessed, of which the least is transcendent beauty. The very least. I could hardly wait for all this ecstasy and once I prayed for a long time to be dead. Then remembered that this was a sin. It’s presumption or despair, I forget which, but a mortal sin. So I prayed for a long time about that too, but the thought came, so many things are sins, why? Another sin, to think that. However, happily, Sister Marie Augustine says thought are no sins, if they are driven away at once. You say Lord save me, I perish. I find it very comforting to know exactly what must be done. All the same, I did not pray so often after that and soon, hardly at all. I felt bolder, happier, more free. But not so safe. During this time, nearly eighteen months, my stepfather often came to see me. He interviewed Mother Superior first, then I would go into the parlour dressed ready for dinner or a visit to friends. He gave me presents when we parted, sweets, a locket, bracelet, once a very pretty dress which, of course, I could not wear. The last time he came was different. I knew that as soon as I got into the room. He kissed me, held me at arm’s length looking at me carefully and critically, then smiled and said that I was taller than he thought. I reminded him that I was over seventeen, a grown woman. ‘I’ve not forgotten your present,’ he said. Because I felt shy and ill at ease I answered coldly, ‘I can’t wear all these things you buy for me. ‘You can wear what you like when you live with me,’ he said. ‘Where? In Trinidad?’ ‘Of course not. Here, for the time being. With me and your Aunt Cora who is coming home at last. She says another English winter will kill her. And Richard. You can’t be hidden away all your life.’ ‘Why not? I thought. I suppose he noticed my dismay because he began to joke, pay me compliments, and ask me such absurd questions that soon I was laughing too. How would I like to live in England? Then, before I could answer, had I learnt dancing, or were the nuns too strict? ‘They are not strict at all,’ I said. ‘The Bishop who visits them every year says they are lax. Very lax. It’s the climate he says.’ ‘I hope they told him to mind his own business.’ ‘She did. Mother Superior did. Some of the others were frightened. They are not strict but no one has taught me to dance.’ ‘That won’t be difficult. I want you to be happy, Antoinette, secure, I’ve tried to arrange, but we’ll have time to talk about that later.’ As we were going out of the convent gate he said in a careless voice, ‘I have asked some English friends to spend next winter here. You won’t be dull.’ ‘Do you think they’ll come? I said doubtfully ‘One of them will. I’m certain of that.’ It may have been the way he smiled, but again a feeling of dismay, sadness, loss, almost choked me. This time I did not let him see it. It was like that morning when I found the dead horse. Say nothing and it may not be true. But they all knew at the convent. The girls were very curious but I would not answer their questions and for the first time I resented the nuns’ cheerful faces. They are safe. How can they know what it can be like outside? This was the second time I had my dream. Again I have left the house at Coulibri. It is still night and I am walking towards the forest. I am wearing a long dress and thin slippers, so I walk with difficulty, following the man who is with me and holding up the skirt of my dress. It is white and beautiful and I don’t wish to get it soled. I follow him, sick with fear but I make no effort to save myself; if anyone were to try to save me, I would refuse. This must happen. Now we have reached the forest. We are under the tall dark trees and there is no wind. ‘Here?’ He turns and looks at me, his face black with hatred, and when I see this I begin to cry.
The part left out between p.1 and p.2: Anything might have happened to you, Louise, anything at all, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Then there was another saint, said Mother St Justine, she lived later on but still in Italy, or it was in Spain. Italy is white pillars and green water. Spain is hot sun on stones, France is a lady with black hair wearing a white dress because Louise was born in France fifteen years ago, and my mother, whom I must forget and pray for as though she were dead, though she is living, liked to dress in white. No one spoke of her now that Christophine had left us to live with her son. I seldom saw my stepfather. He seemed to dislike Jamaica, Spanish Town in particular, and was often away for months. One hot afternoon in July my aunt told me that she was going to England for a year. Her health was not good and she needed a change. As she talked she was working at a patchwork counterpane. The diamond-shaped pieces of silk melted one into the other, red, blue, purple, green, yellow, all one shimmering colour. Hours and hours she had spent on it and it was nearly finished. Would I be lonely? she asked me and I said ‘No’, looking at the colours. Hours and hours and hours I thought. This convent was my refuge, a place of sunshine and of death where very early in the morning the clap of a wooden signal woke the nine of us who slept in the long dormitory. We woke to see Sister Marie Augustine sitting, serene and neat, bolt upright in a wooden chair. The long brown room was full of gold sunlight and shadows of trees moving quietly. I learnt to say very quickly as the others did, ‘offer up all the prayers, works and sufferings of this day.’ But what about happiness, I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh happiness of course, happiness, well. But I soon forgot about happiness, running down the stairs to the big stone bath where we splashed about wearing long grey cotton chemises which reached to our ankles. The smell of soap as you cautiously soaped yourself under the chemise, a trick to be learned, dressing with modesty, another trick. Great splashes of sunlight as we run up the wooden steps of the refectory. Hot coffee and rolls and melting butter. But after the meal, now and at the hour of our death, and at midday and at six in the evening, now and at the hour of our death. Let perpetual light shine on them. This is for my mother, I would think, wherever her soul is wandering, for it has left her body. Then I remembered how she hated a strong light and loved the cool and the shade. It is a different light they told me. Still, I would not say it. Soon we were back in the shifting shadows outside, more beautiful than any perpetual light could be, and soon I learnt to gabble without thinking as the others did. About changing now and the hour of our death for that is all we have. Everything was brightness, or dark. The wall, the blazing colours of the flowers in the garden, the nuns’ habits were bright, but their veils, the Crucifix hanging from their waists, the shadow of the trees, were black. That was how it was, light and dark, sun and shadow, Heaven and Hell, for one of the nuns knew all about Hell and who does not. But another one knew about Heaven and the attributes of the blessed, of which the least is transcendent beauty. The very least. I could hardly wait for all this ecstasy and once I prayed for a long time to be dead. Then remembered that this was a sin. It’s presumption or despair, I forget which, but a mortal sin. So I prayed for a long time about that too, but the thought came, so many things are sins, why? Another sin, to think that. However, happily, Sister Marie Augustine says thought are no sins, if they are driven away at once. You say Lord save me, I perish. I find it very comforting to know exactly what must be done. All the same, I did not pray so often after that and soon, hardly at all. I felt bolder, happier, more free. But not so safe. During this time, nearly eighteen months, my stepfather often came to see me. He interviewed Mother Superior first, then I would go into the parlour dressed ready for dinner or a visit to friends. He gave me presents when we parted, sweets, a locket, bracelet, once a very pretty dress which, of course, I could not wear. The last time he came was different. I knew that as soon as I got into the room. He kissed me, held me at arm’s length looking at me carefully and critically, then smiled and said that I was taller than he thought. I reminded him that I was over seventeen, a grown woman. ‘I’ve not forgotten your present,’ he said. Because I felt shy and ill at ease I answered coldly, ‘I can’t wear all these things you buy for me. ‘You can wear what you like when you live with me,’ he said. ‘Where? In Trinidad?’ ‘Of course not. Here, for the time being. With me and your Aunt Cora who is coming home at last. She says another English winter will kill her. And Richard. You can’t be hidden away all your life.’ ‘Why not? I thought. I suppose he noticed my dismay because he began to joke, pay me compliments, and ask me such absurd questions that soon I was laughing too. How would I like to live in England? Then, before I could answer, had I learnt dancing, or were the nuns too strict? ‘They are not strict at all,’ I said. ‘The Bishop who visits them every year says they are lax. Very lax. It’s the climate he says.’ ‘I hope they told him to mind his own business.’ ‘She did. Mother Superior did. Some of the others were frightened. They are not strict but no one has taught me to dance.’ ‘That won’t be difficult. I want you to be happy, Antoinette, secure, I’ve tried to arrange, but we’ll have time to talk about that later.’ As we were going out of the convent gate he said in a careless voice, ‘I have asked some English friends to spend next winter here. You won’t be dull.’ ‘Do you think they’ll come? I said doubtfully ‘One of them will. I’m certain of that.’ It may have been the way he smiled, but again a feeling of dismay, sadness, loss, almost choked me. This time I did not let him see it. It was like that morning when I found the dead horse. Say nothing and it may not be true. But they all knew at the convent. The girls were very curious but I would not answer their questions and for the first time I resented the nuns’ cheerful faces. They are safe. How can they know what it can be like outside? This was the second time I had my dream. Again I have left the house at Coulibri. It is still night and I am walking towards the forest. I am wearing a long dress and thin slippers, so I walk with difficulty, following the man who is with me and holding up the skirt of my dress. It is white and beautiful and I don’t wish to get it soled. I follow him, sick with fear but I make no effort to save myself; if anyone were to try to save me, I would refuse. This must happen. Now we have reached the forest. We are under the tall dark trees and there is no wind. ‘Here?’ He turns and looks at me, his face black with hatred, and when I see this I begin to cry.
Thanks so much for this recording. I've just uploaded a first impressions view of the first half of the book (czcams.com/video/hJzYVOx_rtk/video.html). I'd be really interested in any thoughts you may have on this compelling and beautifully written novel.
Masterly reading, amazing talent and careful work....My heartfelt congratulations to the woman reader, her name please?
bien chiant le livre
28:00 page 69
1:59:29
26:41 middle of page 36
This narrator is perfection!
Brilliant reading!
2:45:07 page 113
Wonderful story and narrator, but who is the narrator?
3:26:04 : pg. 98 3:46:00 part 3 pg 105
Part 2 starts at 3:43
23:29
2:57:24 pg136
1:45:26 pg104
27:04
The part missing is all in part one (and someone has commented with the missing text on the part one video). The last page of part one is read at the start of this video.
Thank you! I wanted to listen to this but it's not available on Audible so this was perfect ❤
30:39
23:05
The prequel to Jane Eyre
30:34
The part left out between p.1 and p.2: Anything might have happened to you, Louise, anything at all, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Then there was another saint, said Mother St Justine, she lived later on but still in Italy, or it was in Spain. Italy is white pillars and green water. Spain is hot sun on stones, France is a lady with black hair wearing a white dress because Louise was born in France fifteen years ago, and my mother, whom I must forget and pray for as though she were dead, though she is living, liked to dress in white. No one spoke of her now that Christophine had left us to live with her son. I seldom saw my stepfather. He seemed to dislike Jamaica, Spanish Town in particular, and was often away for months. One hot afternoon in July my aunt told me that she was going to England for a year. Her health was not good and she needed a change. As she talked she was working at a patchwork counterpane. The diamond-shaped pieces of silk melted one into the other, red, blue, purple, green, yellow, all one shimmering colour. Hours and hours she had spent on it and it was nearly finished. Would I be lonely? she asked me and I said ‘No’, looking at the colours. Hours and hours and hours I thought. This convent was my refuge, a place of sunshine and of death where very early in the morning the clap of a wooden signal woke the nine of us who slept in the long dormitory. We woke to see Sister Marie Augustine sitting, serene and neat, bolt upright in a wooden chair. The long brown room was full of gold sunlight and shadows of trees moving quietly. I learnt to say very quickly as the others did, ‘offer up all the prayers, works and sufferings of this day.’ But what about happiness, I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh happiness of course, happiness, well. But I soon forgot about happiness, running down the stairs to the big stone bath where we splashed about wearing long grey cotton chemises which reached to our ankles. The smell of soap as you cautiously soaped yourself under the chemise, a trick to be learned, dressing with modesty, another trick. Great splashes of sunlight as we run up the wooden steps of the refectory. Hot coffee and rolls and melting butter. But after the meal, now and at the hour of our death, and at midday and at six in the evening, now and at the hour of our death. Let perpetual light shine on them. This is for my mother, I would think, wherever her soul is wandering, for it has left her body. Then I remembered how she hated a strong light and loved the cool and the shade. It is a different light they told me. Still, I would not say it. Soon we were back in the shifting shadows outside, more beautiful than any perpetual light could be, and soon I learnt to gabble without thinking as the others did. About changing now and the hour of our death for that is all we have. Everything was brightness, or dark. The wall, the blazing colours of the flowers in the garden, the nuns’ habits were bright, but their veils, the Crucifix hanging from their waists, the shadow of the trees, were black. That was how it was, light and dark, sun and shadow, Heaven and Hell, for one of the nuns knew all about Hell and who does not. But another one knew about Heaven and the attributes of the blessed, of which the least is transcendent beauty. The very least. I could hardly wait for all this ecstasy and once I prayed for a long time to be dead. Then remembered that this was a sin. It’s presumption or despair, I forget which, but a mortal sin. So I prayed for a long time about that too, but the thought came, so many things are sins, why? Another sin, to think that. However, happily, Sister Marie Augustine says thought are no sins, if they are driven away at once. You say Lord save me, I perish. I find it very comforting to know exactly what must be done. All the same, I did not pray so often after that and soon, hardly at all. I felt bolder, happier, more free. But not so safe. During this time, nearly eighteen months, my stepfather often came to see me. He interviewed Mother Superior first, then I would go into the parlour dressed ready for dinner or a visit to friends. He gave me presents when we parted, sweets, a locket, bracelet, once a very pretty dress which, of course, I could not wear. The last time he came was different. I knew that as soon as I got into the room. He kissed me, held me at arm’s length looking at me carefully and critically, then smiled and said that I was taller than he thought. I reminded him that I was over seventeen, a grown woman. ‘I’ve not forgotten your present,’ he said. Because I felt shy and ill at ease I answered coldly, ‘I can’t wear all these things you buy for me. ‘You can wear what you like when you live with me,’ he said. ‘Where? In Trinidad?’ ‘Of course not. Here, for the time being. With me and your Aunt Cora who is coming home at last. She says another English winter will kill her. And Richard. You can’t be hidden away all your life.’ ‘Why not? I thought. I suppose he noticed my dismay because he began to joke, pay me compliments, and ask me such absurd questions that soon I was laughing too. How would I like to live in England? Then, before I could answer, had I learnt dancing, or were the nuns too strict? ‘They are not strict at all,’ I said. ‘The Bishop who visits them every year says they are lax. Very lax. It’s the climate he says.’ ‘I hope they told him to mind his own business.’ ‘She did. Mother Superior did. Some of the others were frightened. They are not strict but no one has taught me to dance.’ ‘That won’t be difficult. I want you to be happy, Antoinette, secure, I’ve tried to arrange, but we’ll have time to talk about that later.’ As we were going out of the convent gate he said in a careless voice, ‘I have asked some English friends to spend next winter here. You won’t be dull.’ ‘Do you think they’ll come? I said doubtfully ‘One of them will. I’m certain of that.’ It may have been the way he smiled, but again a feeling of dismay, sadness, loss, almost choked me. This time I did not let him see it. It was like that morning when I found the dead horse. Say nothing and it may not be true. But they all knew at the convent. The girls were very curious but I would not answer their questions and for the first time I resented the nuns’ cheerful faces. They are safe. How can they know what it can be like outside? This was the second time I had my dream. Again I have left the house at Coulibri. It is still night and I am walking towards the forest. I am wearing a long dress and thin slippers, so I walk with difficulty, following the man who is with me and holding up the skirt of my dress. It is white and beautiful and I don’t wish to get it soled. I follow him, sick with fear but I make no effort to save myself; if anyone were to try to save me, I would refuse. This must happen. Now we have reached the forest. We are under the tall dark trees and there is no wind. ‘Here?’ He turns and looks at me, his face black with hatred, and when I see this I begin to cry.
Thank you
The part left out between p.1 and p.2: Anything might have happened to you, Louise, anything at all, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Then there was another saint, said Mother St Justine, she lived later on but still in Italy, or it was in Spain. Italy is white pillars and green water. Spain is hot sun on stones, France is a lady with black hair wearing a white dress because Louise was born in France fifteen years ago, and my mother, whom I must forget and pray for as though she were dead, though she is living, liked to dress in white. No one spoke of her now that Christophine had left us to live with her son. I seldom saw my stepfather. He seemed to dislike Jamaica, Spanish Town in particular, and was often away for months. One hot afternoon in July my aunt told me that she was going to England for a year. Her health was not good and she needed a change. As she talked she was working at a patchwork counterpane. The diamond-shaped pieces of silk melted one into the other, red, blue, purple, green, yellow, all one shimmering colour. Hours and hours she had spent on it and it was nearly finished. Would I be lonely? she asked me and I said ‘No’, looking at the colours. Hours and hours and hours I thought. This convent was my refuge, a place of sunshine and of death where very early in the morning the clap of a wooden signal woke the nine of us who slept in the long dormitory. We woke to see Sister Marie Augustine sitting, serene and neat, bolt upright in a wooden chair. The long brown room was full of gold sunlight and shadows of trees moving quietly. I learnt to say very quickly as the others did, ‘offer up all the prayers, works and sufferings of this day.’ But what about happiness, I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh happiness of course, happiness, well. But I soon forgot about happiness, running down the stairs to the big stone bath where we splashed about wearing long grey cotton chemises which reached to our ankles. The smell of soap as you cautiously soaped yourself under the chemise, a trick to be learned, dressing with modesty, another trick. Great splashes of sunlight as we run up the wooden steps of the refectory. Hot coffee and rolls and melting butter. But after the meal, now and at the hour of our death, and at midday and at six in the evening, now and at the hour of our death. Let perpetual light shine on them. This is for my mother, I would think, wherever her soul is wandering, for it has left her body. Then I remembered how she hated a strong light and loved the cool and the shade. It is a different light they told me. Still, I would not say it. Soon we were back in the shifting shadows outside, more beautiful than any perpetual light could be, and soon I learnt to gabble without thinking as the others did. About changing now and the hour of our death for that is all we have. Everything was brightness, or dark. The wall, the blazing colours of the flowers in the garden, the nuns’ habits were bright, but their veils, the Crucifix hanging from their waists, the shadow of the trees, were black. That was how it was, light and dark, sun and shadow, Heaven and Hell, for one of the nuns knew all about Hell and who does not. But another one knew about Heaven and the attributes of the blessed, of which the least is transcendent beauty. The very least. I could hardly wait for all this ecstasy and once I prayed for a long time to be dead. Then remembered that this was a sin. It’s presumption or despair, I forget which, but a mortal sin. So I prayed for a long time about that too, but the thought came, so many things are sins, why? Another sin, to think that. However, happily, Sister Marie Augustine says thought are no sins, if they are driven away at once. You say Lord save me, I perish. I find it very comforting to know exactly what must be done. All the same, I did not pray so often after that and soon, hardly at all. I felt bolder, happier, more free. But not so safe. During this time, nearly eighteen months, my stepfather often came to see me. He interviewed Mother Superior first, then I would go into the parlour dressed ready for dinner or a visit to friends. He gave me presents when we parted, sweets, a locket, bracelet, once a very pretty dress which, of course, I could not wear. The last time he came was different. I knew that as soon as I got into the room. He kissed me, held me at arm’s length looking at me carefully and critically, then smiled and said that I was taller than he thought. I reminded him that I was over seventeen, a grown woman. ‘I’ve not forgotten your present,’ he said. Because I felt shy and ill at ease I answered coldly, ‘I can’t wear all these things you buy for me. ‘You can wear what you like when you live with me,’ he said. ‘Where? In Trinidad?’ ‘Of course not. Here, for the time being. With me and your Aunt Cora who is coming home at last. She says another English winter will kill her. And Richard. You can’t be hidden away all your life.’ ‘Why not? I thought. I suppose he noticed my dismay because he began to joke, pay me compliments, and ask me such absurd questions that soon I was laughing too. How would I like to live in England? Then, before I could answer, had I learnt dancing, or were the nuns too strict? ‘They are not strict at all,’ I said. ‘The Bishop who visits them every year says they are lax. Very lax. It’s the climate he says.’ ‘I hope they told him to mind his own business.’ ‘She did. Mother Superior did. Some of the others were frightened. They are not strict but no one has taught me to dance.’ ‘That won’t be difficult. I want you to be happy, Antoinette, secure, I’ve tried to arrange, but we’ll have time to talk about that later.’ As we were going out of the convent gate he said in a careless voice, ‘I have asked some English friends to spend next winter here. You won’t be dull.’ ‘Do you think they’ll come? I said doubtfully ‘One of them will. I’m certain of that.’ It may have been the way he smiled, but again a feeling of dismay, sadness, loss, almost choked me. This time I did not let him see it. It was like that morning when I found the dead horse. Say nothing and it may not be true. But they all knew at the convent. The girls were very curious but I would not answer their questions and for the first time I resented the nuns’ cheerful faces. They are safe. How can they know what it can be like outside? This was the second time I had my dream. Again I have left the house at Coulibri. It is still night and I am walking towards the forest. I am wearing a long dress and thin slippers, so I walk with difficulty, following the man who is with me and holding up the skirt of my dress. It is white and beautiful and I don’t wish to get it soled. I follow him, sick with fear but I make no effort to save myself; if anyone were to try to save me, I would refuse. This must happen. Now we have reached the forest. We are under the tall dark trees and there is no wind. ‘Here?’ He turns and looks at me, his face black with hatred, and when I see this I begin to cry.
Thank you so much!
bookmark 12:40
48:36
1:00:00
1:30:48
2:13:00
2:27:23
11:46
Love the accent
3.06
Wide Sargasso Sea - Part 2: czcams.com/video/6wRECRNz0-M/video.html
1:38:00
41:45
3:46:28 my bookmark pdf 80, pg.59
Part 2 starts at 3:47
what’s the point of posting the audio book if you just put adds every few minutes
2:45:26
I absolutely love these readings of this book 💯🌸
2:00:54
Well, well ... looks like Rochester was not such a noble man after all 😉.
Thank you. This is so appreciated. Thank you 🙏 😊 the lady that read this was perfect 😃
2:46:05
54:14
49:34
11:30
38:59
Superb narration: discerning, poignant, mysterious. Bravo!
1:53:37
3:39- part 2
1:14:34
Thanks for this presentation. It is an excellent attempt
Excellent reading. Not just an "attempt."
This book makes me hate Mr.Rochester so much, this was so hard to listen to
You liked him before?
Thanks so much for this recording. I've just uploaded a first impressions view of the first half of the book (czcams.com/video/hJzYVOx_rtk/video.html). I'd be really interested in any thoughts you may have on this compelling and beautifully written novel.
15:20