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Oh, my stomach, my stomach.

Two chairs were placed side by side in the middle of the room. There the heroes were seated while the partisans ranged themselves right and left, waiting for the wits to sparkle and flash.
Joyce said, ‘I’ve headaches every day. My eyes are terrible.’
Proust replied, ‘My poor stomach. What am I going to do? It’s killing me. In fact, I must leave at once.’
‘I’m in the same situation,’ replied Joyce. ‘If I can find someone to take me by the arm. Goodbye!’
‘Charmé,’ said Proust. ‘Oh, my stomach, my stomach.’


Janita disse…
A idade do Condor é terrível.