But she was not sure just how to reach it. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. Enschede—that's a queer name. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. The land about these walls is a common graveyard.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQxLjEwMC4xMjAgLSAwMi0wNS0yMDI0IDIwOjAzOjUzIC0gMTkwMTQ4NjE4NA==
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