She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQwLjE5OC4yMjUgLSAxMS0wNi0yMDI0IDA3OjU4OjA4IC0gNzAwMDE0MDE5
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