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Page "James Cagney" ¶ 30
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She and too
She too began to weep.
She seemed to have come such a long distance -- too far for her destination which had wilfully been swallowed up in the greedy gloom of the trees.
She had spent too many hours looking ahead, hoping and longing to catch even a glimpse of Dan and finding nothing but emptiness.
She looked down at her hands, too.
She, too, is concerned with `` the becoming, the process of realization '', but she does not think in terms of subtle variations of spatial or temporal patterns.
She was pious, too, once kneeling through the night from Holy Thursday to Good Friday, despite the protest of the nuns that this was too much for a young girl.
She asked if I had other advice and, heady with success, I rushed it in, I hope not too late.
She was wise enough to realize a man could be good company even if he did weigh too much and didn't own the mint.
She was a child too much a part of her environment, too eager to grow and learn and experience.
She stayed too late, and when she left, it was dark and time to go home and cook supper for her husband.
She was too young, that was all ; ;
She had had a dignity about her, even barefoot and almost too tan.
She was a living doll and no mistake -- the blue-black bang, the wide cheekbones, olive-flushed, that betrayed the Cherokee strain in her Midwestern lineage, and the mouth whose only fault, in the novelist's carping phrase, was that the lower lip was a trifle too voluptuous.
She found she could cope with all kinds of problems for which she was once considered too helpless.
She named 48 items, and said there were `` many more things which it would take too long to write ''.
She turned out to be a fan, too, of Margaret Bouton, the Gallery's associate curator of education.
She musn't annoy Gunny whose foal was due then too!!
She felt like a fool, too.
She has a maid called Maria who prevents the public adoration from becoming too much of a burden on her employer, but does nothing to prevent her from becoming too much of a burden on others.
She notes that she too once had dreams, having come to Vienna to study opera singing with Salieri.
According to lexicographer William Smith, " She was accused of too much familiarity with Orestes, prefect of Alexandria, and the charge spread among the clergy, who took up the notion that she interrupted the friendship of Orestes with their archbishop, Cyril.

She and was
She was amazingly light, and so relaxed in his arms that he wasn't even sure she was conscious.
She was carrying a quirt, and she started to raise it, then let it fall again and dangle from her wrist.
She glanced around the clearing, taking in the wagon and the load of supplies and trappings scattered over the ground, the two kids, the whiteface bull that was chewing its cud just within the far reaches of the firelight.
She said, and her tone had softened until it was almost friendly.
She had picked up the quirt and was twirling it around her wrist and smiling at him.
She was quick.
She brought up her free hand to hit him, but this time he was quicker.
She regarded them as signs that she was nearing the glen she sought, and she was glad to at last be doing something positive in her unenunciated, undefined struggle with the mountain and its darkling inhabitants.
She was sure she would reach the pool by climbing, and she clung to that belief despite the increasing number of obstacles.
She was bewildered.
She was standing in a thick grove.
She already knew this unwholesome, chilling atmosphere that was somehow grotesquely alive.
She was glad, completely and unselfishly glad, to see that things were working out the right way for both Sally and Dan.
She was still hugging the stained coat around her, so I said, `` Relax, let me take your things.
She was wearing nothing beneath the coat.
She was standing with her back to the glass door.
She was just not able to break the spell.
She was telling herself that this might just be her reward at the end of a long meaningful search for truth.
Meredith was irritated when the Grafin knocked at his door and told him, `` She is a great beauty!!
She confessed she was unhappy, he asked was it her husband??
She began to explain, `` There was this poet, in Italy '' He interrupted, `` Please don't judge all poets ''.
She was like charcoal, he thought -- dark, opaque, explosive.

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