1 That's all they care about, clothes.
2 Take yer clothes off an look at yourselves.
3 He laughed wryly, and threw off his clothes.
4 She pulled open his clothing and uncovered his belly, and kissed his navel.
5 There he stood, tall and slender, and so different, in a formal suit of thin dark cloth.
6 He rose, and turned up the lantern, then began to pull on his clothes, quickly disappearing inside them.
7 Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing.
8 Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under the clothing to where she was smooth and warm.
9 And Mrs Bolton was carefully dressing him in evening clothes, for there were important business guests in the house.
10 He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, apparently adjusting his own clothing.
11 The lads spend every penny on themselves, clothes, smoking, drinking in the Miners' Welfare, jaunting off to Sheffield two or three times a week.
12 The serious ones dress up in evening clothes and go off to the Pally to show off before a lot of girls and dance these new Charlestons and what not.
13 When Connie went up to her bedroom she did what she had not done for a long time: took off all her clothes, and looked at herself naked in the huge mirror.
14 But I don't see how you're going to get bolshevism, when all the lads want is just money to enjoy themselves, and the girls the same, with fine clothes: and they don't care about another thing.
15 He lifted himself kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern.
16 Anyhow just when I was more than fed up with that other girl, when I was twenty-one, back comes Bertha, with airs and graces and smart clothes and a sort of bloom on her: a sort of sensual bloom that you'd see sometimes on a woman, or on a trolly.
17 Field started upwards, past the big but weary-looking drapers and clothing shops, the post-office, into the little market-place of forlorn space, where Sam Black was peering out of the door of the Sun, that called itself an inn, not a pub, and where the commercial travellers stayed, and was bowing to Lady Chatterley's car.
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