You got an Indian girl.

He’s an awfully nice man.

We had an old Ford coupé.

He was going to be an engineer.

“That’s an old one,” Manuel said.

How do you like being an interne?

“It’s an awful thing,” Nick said.

There is an Indian lady very sick.

It’s not really an operation at all.

They want to see us in half an hour.

He’ll be back in about half an hour.

He took an awful beating in the body.

You can’t have an idea what it’s like.

It was an absolutely perfect obstacle.

It was an awful mess to put you through.

There was an electric light in his eyes.

“An industrial accident,” the doctor said.

Once I used a salamander from under an old log.

You remind me of a⁠—of a rose, an absolute rose.

An old woman stood in the doorway holding a lamp.

I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler.

“Have you got an Indian girl, Nickie?” Joe asked.

He went through here ’bout an hour and a half ago.

They ain’t anybody can have an idea what it’s like.

It didn’t show what an awful beating he was taking.

He hadn’t shaved and he was wearing an old sweater.

So he ate an orange, slowly spitting out the seeds.

We only had an hour ashore and it was Sunday morning.

He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people.

In that army an adjutant is not a commissioned officer.

“All I want is an even break,” Manuel said reasoningly.

It was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian.

The Hungarians were backing their wagon out of an alley.

You mean they don’t want to see us until a half an hour?

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

You ain’t got an idea what it’s like when you can’t sleep.

Somebody threw an empty champagne-bottle from close range.

It was an idiotic idea, he said, “a theory, like another.”

He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said.

We’d jammed an absolutely perfect barricade across the bridge.

She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”

The waiter had taken him across the road and into an old house.

If I can fix it so that I get an even break, that’s all I want.

“My friend is a misogynist,” I said, “an old German misogynist.”

He’s wearing a sweater and an old pair of pants and boxing shoes.

“Well, after all,” I said, “he’s just an ignorant Mexican savage.”

You ain’t got an idea what it’s like, Jerry, when you can’t sleep.

There was a sign with a picture of an S-turn and Svolta Pericolosa.

He was wearing an old blue jersey and pants and had on boxing shoes.