Not exact matches
He bursts into sight in a cloud of energy, dressed in silk pantaloons and tight white stockings, comes to a
stop in the middle of the stage with his
hands on his
hips and his feet apart, and stands with his legs radiating power and purpose.
Each time he slapped at the ball and made contact he howled in pain and then
stopped,
hands on hips, and smiled as the ball curved over first, hit the foul line midway down the right - field line, kicked up white dust and then skidded into the opposing team's bullpen.
He hovered his
hands over the painting in exactly the way I had been moving my eye,
on the
hips of an invisible figure skater — tracing the brushy figure 8s, and
stopping short
on the edge of his blade.