1 'She's beautiful,' he murmured.
2 It was a peculiarly beautiful book.
3 'It's a beautiful thing,' said Winston.
4 That was a beautiful bit of paper, that was.
5 It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.
6 He would buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish.
7 Except for her mouth, you could not call her beautiful.
8 You don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of words.
9 Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind.
10 'It is a beautiful thing,' said the other appreciatively.
11 A trumpet call, clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air.
12 Anything old, and for that matter anything beautiful, was always vaguely suspect.
13 Now that's a beautiful mahogany bed, or at least it would be if you could get the bugs out of it.
14 But in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look after them.
15 As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching up for the line, her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck him for the first time that she was beautiful.
16 It had never before occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful.
17 The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil.
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