He was happy.

Then he was dead.

He wouldn’t move.

He was still asleep.

He had another drink.

He was smoking a pipe.

He was very fond of it.

He was drunk all right.

He was really very fast.

Mantegna he did not like.

He was nervously unsteady.

And he never told anybody.

He was delighted with Italy.

He felt it through the door.

He liked to get into fights.

He turned and shut the gate.

He talked about it a little.

He had been hit in the spine.

“Retana,” he said, listening.

He knew how big a man he was.

“This is the queen,” he said.

He seemed very glad to see me.

He bent over the Indian woman.

It was awful while he was gone.

Why did he kill himself, Daddy?

He couldn’t hardly lift his arm.

He picked up the two cant-hooks.

“See, it’s a boy, Nick,” he said.

He sat with the gun on his knees.

He spat tobacco juice on the log.

He used this instead of a ticket.

“But it will go better,” he said.

He was Spider Kelly’s star pupil.

He had to stop and wash his hands.

He didn’t seem to notice her much.

Each time he felt the horn coming.

He couldn’t stand things, I guess.

It was a beautiful country, he said.

He loved the mountains in the autumn.

“We have good whisky anyway,” he said.

“Retana,” he said and banged the door.

He cantered jerkily along the barrera.

He rolled his head over and swallowed.

He went to America on a boat from Genoa.

He had changed since his New Haven years.

I must say he took it all pretty quietly.

He loved the taste and the feel of whisky.

He felt warm and sticky from the bleeding.

Like all Greeks he wanted to go to America.

Mrs. Smith kissed Alonzo and he hugged her.