Clea and I waited an appropriate interval, then turned and clung to each other in a kind of rapture.
NEWYORKER: The King of Sentences
Clea and I were custodians of a treasury of sentences much bigger on the inside than on the outside.
Clea blushed around the sentence, her flesh blazing like neon.
His eyes shifted nervously from Clea, settling on me.
Clea and I began simultaneously, tangling aloud.
Clea hugged herself with pleasure.
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