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Monitor webcam microphone. How not spun? – mother stumbled, – “But why did Paraskeva spud you?” “Of course, she spun,” smiled Feronits, “here in her hands is one thing.
Spun, spun, here you will rip off your skin, you’ll know how to drive sisters with a twig.
“I just picked it up,” looking at her fist, the girl also whispered everything hesitantly, “I, that is.”
“The hands have been slaughtered again,” the woman swooped down, charging the slap of her negligent daughter with a sweep of her face.
For the whole family called for trouble, famously with you.
On the beds, the sisters burst out laughing.

“But this will not help,” the mother lamented, “Paraskeva will punish all one, once she thought that you worked the yarn.”
You could send Zakharia to you, he knows how to buy off, this demon is a scientist to all secret priests, but only to get there how bright, the cursed one lives far away, and in the morning it will come Friday after yarn.

“I’ll get there,” Ushynitsa flashed, “the Mother of God will not let her perish, and prayer will help me.”
“It’s not going to be a sorcerer,” said Mavryutka, descending to calm Ondreyk, who cried out, “the father says that Zakhariy is living with dark force.
We buy off Friday, and destroy the immortal soul with magical rites.
- Not God, it is not God, but only there is nothing more to do, all to disappear.
Go, daughter, you can reach, the life-giving cross on your chest will protect you, and I will pray for you.
Just do not forget – it is impossible to look into the eyes of the Volkhovans and do not take anything from him in your hands, well, go already.
With these words, the woman crossed over her daughter and, throwing her handkerchief on her, walked to the door.
The estuary, slipping through the hallway, opened the door on the go and rushed along the path that led to the Ugoritsa, where Zakhariy lived, a gloomy and gloomy boon, to which witchcraft was attributed.

Trying not to look back and not to listen to the rustle of the night, she ran and ran, barefoot, driven by the biting blows of grass and her own fear.
2
Our days,
Chervonevsky I met her that very year, when my life so abruptly changed its course.
I broke up with my wife, the former mistress left me herself, there were solid problems at work, and I urgently needed to look for a new place of residence, even though there was always a complete zero in my pocket.
Most of all, I was plagued by the emptiness in my soul and the purposelessness of existence.
He banged the wheels of another tram, but I didn’t even pay attention to him, I was sitting at the bus stop, thinking about the future, as always I felt sorry for myself and smoked one after another a cigarette.
The depressing heat, melting everything around, did not kindly complement my despondency.
Just opposite, right on the sidewalk, in front of the entrance to the territory of the Catherine’s Church, were a few beggars, in disgusting voices asking for “Christ’s sake.”
I thought that the life of these people is much more equipped than mine, they are not looking for themselves and do not rush around in the endless search for warmth and a loved one, they just float along the course of life and an unknown force supports them, without any reason.

I noticed her immediately.
She walked past those very beggars, heading for a quiet, modest walk to the temple.
Of course, she was wearing a gray-blue dress that looked more like a hoodie, no heels, a long striped skirt to the heels, some sort of blouse buttoned all the buttons to the neck, an obligatory shawl on her head, white with lurid pink patterns.
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