I wouldn't normally do this, but I really have to point out that you mis-spelled the names of both Ernest Hemingway and Jane Austen.

If indeed that's who you meant, because Austen wasn't known for her writing being florid or meandering, quite the opposite. For her time she was practically telegraphic.

Here's the opening to Pride and Prejudice:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

And here's a sentence from right at the start of Sense and Sensibility:

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.

A much better choice of meandering novelist would be Henry James, who descends so often into sub-clauses and sub-sub-clauses that you long in vain for some curly brackets to break the thing up into nice blocks:

She had got up with these last words; she stood there before him with that particular suggestion in her aspect to which even the long habit of their life together had not closed his sense, kept sharp, year after year, by the collation of types and signs, the comparison of fine object with fine object, of one degree of finish, of one form of the exquisite with another--the appearance of some slight, slim draped "antique" of Vatican or Capitoline halls, late and refined, rare as a note and immortal as a link, set in motion by the miraculous infusion of a modern impulse and yet, for all the sudden freedom of folds and footsteps forsaken after centuries by their pedestal, keeping still the quality, the perfect felicity, of the statue; the blurred, absent eyes, the smoothed, elegant, nameless head, the impersonal flit of a creature lost in an alien age and passing as an image in worn relief round and round a precious vase.

Now that's meandering...

Guess what my degree was in?