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It was a very busy place, with girls rushing to and fro or sauntering limberly up and down in tremendously handsome gowns. Kedzie could not pick out Lady Powell-Carewe. One of the promenaders was so tall and so haughty that Kedzie thought she must be at least a "Lady." She was in a silvery, shimmery green-and-gray gown, and the man whom the customers called "Mr.
His right arm hung limberly down in a graceful perpendicular, unaffected by the galloping motion of his horse, and his fingers were clasped about the lock of a repeating rifle, pointed muzzle to the ground.
It was not Frank Johnson, but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat without speaking and turned toward the back of the wagon. "Why, where's Frank?" she asked, going up to where Lone was dismounting in silence. "He's there in the wagon. We picked him up back here about three-quarters of a mile or so." "What's the matter? Is he drunk?"
She had risen from a chair of ebony enriched by cunning Etruscan art four mounted knights charging across its heavy back in armor of wrought gold. She stopped, facing the company, between two columns of white marble beautifully sculptured. Upon each a vine rose, limberly and with soft leaves in the stone, from base to capital.
So, all around, the sea was strewn with stuffed bed-ticks, that limberly floated on the waves couches for all mermaids who were not fastidious.
To be wicked is a very different thing from sinful. I never told you I was wicked, child. What put that into your head?" "Oh, I thought they were the same thing. Which is the worst, Mrs. Austin?" I asked, with unfeigned simplicity. "There, Miriam, step on before! you walk too fast anyhow for me to-day. Besides, your tongue wags too limberly by half.
The west-bound train stopped at San Rosario on time at 8.20 A.M. A man with a thick black-leather wallet under his arm left the train and walked rapidly up the main street of the town. There were other passengers who also got off at San Rosario, but they either slouched limberly over to the railroad eating-house or the Silver Dollar saloon, or joined the groups of idlers about the station.
Solomon Wells was an elderly man, tall, and bending limberly under his age like an old willow, his spare long body in nicely kept broadcloth sitting and rising with wide flaps of black coat-tails, his eyes peering forth mildly through spectacles. He was a widower of long standing. His daughter Eliza, who kept his house, sat beside him.
It was not Frank Johnson, but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat without speaking and turned toward the back of the wagon. "Why, where's Frank?" she asked, going up to where Lone was dismounting in silence. "He's there in the wagon. We picked him up back here about three-quarters of a mile or so." "What's the matter? Is he drunk?"
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