Ag sat on the bed.

He sat on the bed.

Jack was sitting on the bed.

He just sits there on the bed.

They were scattered on the bed.

Mr. Turner stood beside the bed.

Jack was lying asleep on the bed.

“Well, I’m going to bed myself,” I said.

Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.

His father said, “You better go to bed, Nick.”

Nick lay in the bed with his face in the pillow.

He reached under the bed for a bottle and drank.

Morgan was sitting on the bed where Jack had sat.

He was sitting on his bed now, cleaning a shotgun.

Nick went into his room, undressed, and got into bed.

I helped him get his clothes off and got him into bed.

The American lady’s bed was the one next to the window.

Upstairs Jack sat on the bed with his head in his hands.

When the burlesque show caught up with him he was in bed.

Ole Andreson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on.

As he walked back along the halls he thought of Ag in his bed.

Well, about eleven o’clock Jack passes out and I put him to bed.

He and Mrs. Elliot slept in a big, hot bedroom on a big, hard bed.

He had been a heavyweight prizefighter and he was too long for the bed.

One morning after he had been home about a month his mother came into his bedroom and sat on the bed.

After he got on crutches he used to take the temperatures so Ag would not have to get up from the bed.

As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall.

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

Her Bible, her copy of Science and Health and her Quarterly were on a table beside her bed in the darkened room.

She often came in when he was in bed and asked him to tell her about the war, but her attention always wandered.

In the cottage the doctor, sitting on the bed in his room, saw a pile of medical journals on the floor by the bureau.

He crawled inside under the mosquito bar with various things from the pack to put at the head of the bed under the slant of the canvas.

He was in bed when the manager of the burlesque troupe came into his room and after the manager had gone out he decided that he might as well stay in bed.

When Mr. Turner came into the room he saw clothing on a chair, an open suitcase, the bottle on a chair beside the bed, and someone lying in the bed completely covered by the bedclothes.

I had a dog⁠—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away⁠—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

She stood for a moment by his bed, a slender, exquisitely graceful figure in her boyish silk pajamas⁠—then with abandon she flung herself upon him, half waking him in the frantic emotion of her embrace, dropping her warm tears upon his throat.

During this time, it was late summer, he was sleeping late in bed, getting up to walk down town to the library to get a book, eating lunch at home, reading on the front porch until he became bored and then walking down through the town to spend the hottest hours of the day in the cool dark of the pool room.

I was never ashamed of the ribbons, though, and sometimes, after the cocktail hour, I would imagine myself having done all the things they had done to get their medals; but walking home at night through the empty streets with the cold wind and all the shops closed, trying to keep near the street lights, I knew that I would never have done such things, and I was very much afraid to die, and often lay in bed at night by myself, afraid to die and wondering how I would be when I went back to the front again.