Weak and envy'd, if they should conspire, / They wreck themselves, and he hath his Desire.

One could make out a faint sucking-sound coming from her mouth, but the flattened lips would only brush the fine down while two fingers of the other hand went in search of more such hairplay on her—or his—body.

Evening is drawing on; we'd better call it a day.

Owing possibly to some flaw in his mental make-up, Uncle Tom has been collecting old silver since I was so high […]. I knew all about that collection of his, not only because I had had to listen to him for hours on the subject of sconces, foliation, ribbon wreaths in high relief and gadroon borders, but because I had what you might call a personal interest in it, once having stolen an eighteenth-century cow-creamer for him.