I. LIZ
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ith breathing as (faithfully) her lowneckeddress a little topples and slightly expands one square foot mired in silk wrinkling lothstocking begins queerly to do a fewgestures to death,the silent shoulders are bothslowly with pinkish ponderous arms bedeckedwhose white thick wrists deliver promptly toa deep lap enormous mindless hands.and no one knows what (i am sure of this)her blunt unslender, what her big unkeen “Business is rotten” the face yawning said what her mouth thinks of(if it were a kissdistinct entirely melting sinuous lean . . .whereof this lady in some book had read
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