The man looked to be alone.

Manuel stood alone, facing the bull.

“Leave the kid alone,” Solly Freedman says.

The liquor had all died out of him and left him alone.

Alone in the centre of the ring the bull stood, still fixed.

They rushed it, and officers came out alone and worked on it.

I grabbed his arm and he pulled loose and said, “Oh, leave me alone.”

“If you think the logs are stolen, leave them alone and take your tools back to the camp,” the doctor said.

He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone.

He put his pad of paper in his pocket and looked over toward Manuel, standing very much alone in the ring, gesturing with his hat in a salute toward a box he could not see high up in the dark plaza.

Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees⁠—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.