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Updated: June 2, 2025
Spencer, draining his wine-glass to the depth of its stem. "Mr. Pelz, believe me if the Atlantic Ocean was made out of this stuff, you wouldn't have to engage passage for me; I'd swim across." "You better learn how first," said Mr. Pelz. "You've cost me a fortune already in dummies for the water scenes." "It's a riot, Mr.
Incongruous enough on the Pinturicchio table, and as if she had dared to walk where mere moderns feared to tread, a polychrome framed picture of Miss Bleema Pelz, tulle-clouded, piquant profile flung charmingly to the northwest, and one bare shoulder prettily defiled with a long screw-curl, lit, as it were, into the careful gloom.
"Say, I don't deny if I got some day to have a son-in-law, my first choice for him would be Feist." "Roody, the two estates together in one!" "I'm surprised at you, Rosie honest, I'm surprised. Such talk!" Mrs. Pelz took a pinch of his each cheek, tiptoeing to kiss him squarely on the lips. "Go get dressed," she said, "and I'll wait for you."
Pelz the soft, dove-like maturity of her little swell of bosom; the white, even creamy shoulders ever so slightly too plump between the blades; the still black hair polished and waved into expensive permanence.
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