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The question is… How did a girl like Annabelle manage to talk a man like you into joining our silly little family party?” Annabelle smiled sweetly. “I promised he could tie me up afterward and spank me.
Susan Elizabeth Phillips
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Susan Elizabeth Phillips
Age: 75
Born: 1948
Born: December 11
Novelist
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
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Sweetly
Talk
Afterward
Party
Joining
Family
Smiled
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Ties
Little
Manage
Men
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Spank
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Celebrate the success of others. High tide floats all ships.
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The engine roared to life. He ran toward her. She shot our of her parking space. He rushed to the side of her car. Stop it, Kristy! You're overreacting! Let's talk about this. That was when she did the unthinkable. She rolled down the window, thrust out her hand, and gave Reverend Ethan Bonner the bird.
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Old radicals never changed. They just got law degrees and updated their bag of tricks.
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I always want to try to bring something fresh to every book. It's getting harder instead of easier. I feel like I work harder with each book. But I don't want it to show on the pages, that's for sure.
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Thanks to April,” she whispered, “you have the wedding you’ve dreamed about ever since you were a little girl.” Dean’s boom of laughter was one more reason she loved this man with all her heart.
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A villain always preferred luring the heroine to his lair.
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I'm just very, very slow. I would not make it as a journalist, I've got to tell you. I sweat bullets over every sentence, and sometimes, you know, a day will pass and I've written one paragraph, and I've been at the computer for four hours.
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Mummy’s coming home late tonight. It’ll be just we guys, so we can get drunk and watch porn.
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There was something about a man with a shovel, and the sweat on his neck might as well have been chocolate sauce. It wasn't fair. Brains and brawns should be two separate categories, not bundled into one irresistible package. She needed to pull herself together before she went after him with a spoon. But where to start?
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My website bulletin board is the place I interact with my readers.
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I hate to admit this, but some days hearing about other people's problems actually cheers me up.
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You try spending six months sitting at somebody's bedside, waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn't one of God's good gifts.
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Before you lost your mind, how did you make a living? I was a hitman for the Mafia. Are you done crying yet? I wasn't crying! And I wish you were a hitman because, if I had money, I'd hire you right this minute to knock yourself off.
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I'm not living in the shadows anymore. I want to walk in the sun. But I can't do that without you.
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I love you, Meg. I want to marry you. I want to sleep with you every night, make love with you, have kids. I want to fight together and work together and—just be together. Now are you going to keep standing there, staring at me, or could you put me out of my misery and say you still love me, at least a little?
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It runs in the family. And don't expect me to be ashamed. Yankees lock away loony relatives, but down here, we prop 'em up on parade floats and march 'em through the middle of town.
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Make-up? What happened? You look almost female. Thanks. You look almost straight.
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When you've been around a snake long enough, you learn how to crawl in the dirt.
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