My long, firm, untired limbs can dance all night.

Oh, I love life! I love life!" You would not have called Berenice Fleming sensuous--though she was--because she was self-controlled.

Her eyes lied to you.

They lied to all the world.

They looked you through and through with a calm savoir faire, a mocking defiance, which said with a faint curl of the lips, barely suggested to help them out, "You cannot read me, you cannot read me." She put her head to one side, smiled, lied (by implication), assumed that there was nothing.