Capricious white-eyed sopa

It’s frosty. Fifteen degrees in the morning. Under the high bank, on the slopes of which there is a small village, there are about thirty fidgets, who value a frosty morning on the ice more than a cozy chair at the TV. Boers are crawling in the ice, smiles sparkle under their frosty mustaches, someone is already warming up, weighty

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