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Page "belles_lettres" ¶ 1401
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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.

She and from
She helped him with the dishes, then he brought more water in from the spring before it got dark.
She had to get away from here before this demoniac possession swallowed up the liquid of her eyes and sank into the fibers of her brain, depriving her of reason and sight.
She had to move in some direction -- any direction that would take her away from this evil place.
She yanked away from him furiously.
She sat quietly, staring at me from the wide eyes.
She stood up, pulled the coat from her shoulders and started to slide it off, then let out a high-pitched scream and I let out a low-pitched, wobbling sound like a muffler blowing out.
She had jumped away from his shy touch like a cat confronted by a sidewinder.
She softly let herself into the bed, and took her regular side, away from the door, where she slept better because Keith was between her and the invader.
She came from Ohio, from what she called a `` small farm '' of two hundred acres, as indeed it was to farmer-type farmers.
She was born Lilian Steichen, her parents immigrants from Luxemburg.
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 ended her letter with the assurance that she considered his friendship for her daughter and herself to be an honor, from which she could not part `` without still more pain ''.
She didn't turn away from the window.
She was ready to kill the beef, dress it out, and with vegetables from her garden was going to can soup, broth, hash, and stew against the winter.
She said, `` I notice the girl from across the street hasn't bothered to phone or visit ''.
She smoothed the covers on Scotty's bed and picked things up from the floor.
She soared over the new pastor like an avenging angel lest he stray from the path and not know all the truth and gossip of which she was chief repository.
She was told by the manservant who opened the door that his lordship was engaged on work from which he had left strict orders he was not to be disturbed.
She usually wore weeds, and a stranger watching her board a train might have guessed that Mr. Pastern was dead, but Mr. Pastern was far from dead.
She turned and walked stiffly into the parlor to the dainty-legged escritoire, warped and cracked now from fifty years in an atmosphere of sea spray.
She looked at the girl speculatively from eyes which had paled with the years ; ;
She was personally sloppy, and when she had colds would blow her nose in the same handkerchief all day and keep it, soaking wet, dangling from her waist, and when she gardened she would eat dinner with dirt on her calves.

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