We all looked⁠—the knuckle was black and blue.

Below, the sea was blue with whitecaps running toward Savona.

Further back, a young man in a blue suit was writing at a table.

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

The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves.

On the forearm, from just above the wrist to the elbow, were small blue circles around tiny dark blue punctures.

There was nothing but the pine plain ahead of him, until the far blue hills that marked the Lake Superior height of land.

A voice in the next room stopped singing and a girl in a blue apron came in through the door to see what they wanted to drink.

The horse’s entrails hung down in a blue bunch and swung backward and forward as he began to canter, the monos whacking him on the back of his legs with the rods.

It was very beautiful in the spring and summer, the bay blue and bright and usually whitecaps on the lake out beyond the point from the breeze blowing from Charlevoix and Lake Michigan.

Peduzzi saw the wife, who looked as young as the young gentleman, and was wearing mountain boots and a blue beret, start out to follow them down the road, carrying the fishing rods, unjointed, one in each hand.

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.