There's the paragraph. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Annabel, I was lying. But he is kind of cute. All the best novels have been written by women, and yet see how men sneer at the lady novelist still! There’s only one way to get on for a woman, and that is to please men. "No," replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. We fetched the doctor and the police. He glanced up at the coachman. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre.
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