The lounger had lounged out of view, and Miss Wade and Tattycoram were gone.
Buvat was a lounger, as every bourgeois of Paris ought to be.
He was just as little of the lounger in his lighter reading.
“I have to live a heap of my life alone,” the lounger went on.
She wished him to know that she was no lounger in woodcraft.
The lounger was Baron Tripeaud, the manufacturing ...