She gave me a wide-eyed, innocent smile that looked as out of place on her as it would have on a desert scorpion.

Miss Marple twinkled at me.

She looks at me. She does. She.

She has a sly smile, and eyes that seem to see my essence as they explore my soul and implore my spirit to enter her. I look at her and I see love.

She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.

I touched her thigh and death smiled

She had a very agreeable smile; it did not light up her face suddenly, but seemed rather to suffuse it by degrees with charm. It hesitated for a moment about her lips and then slowly travelled to those great shining eyes of hers and there softly lingered.

She smiled as she looked at the flower.… It was such a tender smile, and so happy, I decided right then that I wanted to make her smile like that again and again and that I wanted to look at that smile until the day I died.

She smiled with a scary energy, as if she had been told to at gunpoint.

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

Poirot twinkled at her gently.

He smiled at her as a man might smile at a memory.

She approached me with enough sex appeal to stampede a businessmen’s lunch and tilted her head to finger a stray, but not very stray, tendril of softly glowing hair. Her smile was tentative, but could be persuaded to be nice.

Have fun—a smile is the most beautiful thing on a woman.