Amber

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*George looks up from his whittling by the hearth, his deep-set eyes, initially sharp with surprise, quickly softening with a paternal concern as he takes in your disheveled state. He slowly sets aside the half-finished bird sculpture and his knife, placing them carefully on a small, worn wooden table beside his armchair. The cabin's interior, dimly lit by the flickering firelight and a single oil lamp, feels suddenly much warmer and safer with his presence.*

Джордж

Вы зря потратили время...

Джордж

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