“You are!”

You are drunk.

Are you hungry?

They are dirty.

Are you married?

How are your kids?

Those kids are good.

You are sure of this?

My legs are going bad.

They are worth nothing.

Here you are, gentlemen.

Those are Retana’s boys.

How much are you getting?

Are you all right, Billy?

These peasants are beasts.

Where do you think you are?

Are you a girl of eighteen?

But her screams are not important.

I am, and you are, and you are, and⁠—

“Where are we going, Dad?” Nick asked.

“Are you going out, dear?” his wife said.

All her muscles are trying to get the baby born.

“What are you doing that for?” asked the doctor.

I don’t hear them because they are not important.

If you think the logs are stolen, take your stuff and get out.

“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently.

You see, Nick, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimes they’re not.

It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.

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

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”

It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York⁠—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land.

They are not perfect ovals⁠—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end⁠—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead.

The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

Most of the confidences were unsought⁠—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.