You get the idea. Have you ever voted, Mr. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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