I’ll think about it.

What’s it all about?

I don’t care about me.

I worry about the kids.

He knew all about bulls.

“How about another boys?”

Talk about something else.

The bottle was about empty.

He talked about it a little.

It’s about the butler’s nose.

She liked it about his mustache.

Can’t you talk about crops or something?

He felt sick about saying goodbye like that.

Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?

I spoke to him about the Mantegnas in Milano.

“How about a chair, Will?” asked one of the guards.

I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things.

All the time now Liz was thinking about Jim Gilmore.

She was thinking about him hard and then Jim came out.

Ag never got an answer to the letter to Chicago about it.

There were only a few patients, and they all knew about it.

She liked it about how white his teeth were when he smiled.

He had been like that since about four o’clock in the morning.

He liked her face because it was so jolly but he never thought about her.

All the time Jim was gone on the deer hunting trip Liz thought about him.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

He executed an abrupt about-face and returned to the living room, where he renewed his pacing.

We were fifty kilometers from the front, but the adjutant worried about the fire in my kitchen.

On the train from Padua to Milan they quarreled about her not being willing to come home at once.

He talked about the shop to A. J. Smith and about the Republican Party and about James G. Blaine.

Liz was sitting in the kitchen next to the stove pretending to read a book and thinking about Jim.

She couldn’t sleep well from thinking about him but she discovered it was fun to think about him too.

She was very frightened and didn’t know how he was going to go about things but she snuggled close to him.

Nick’s father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin.

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine:

When they operated on him she prepared him for the operating table; and they had a joke about friend or enema.

They felt as though they were married, but they wanted everyone to know about it, and to make it so they could not lose it.

He went under the anaesthetic holding tight on to himself so he would not blab about anything during the silly, talky time.

His eventual conclusions about the expediency of service were vague, but concerning his own relation to it they were abrupt and decisive.

They were all about the hospital, and how much she loved him and how it was impossible to get along without him and how terrible it was missing him at night.

The night before they were to come back she didn’t sleep at all, that is she didn’t think she slept because it was all mixed up in a dream about not sleeping and really not sleeping.

Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering.

He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of the others because they were hysterical about things which in his overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted.

The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men.

If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.