He went on.

He was happy.

Then he was dead.

He wouldn’t move.

He was still asleep.

He had another drink.

He looked at her back.

He was smoking a pipe.

He looked at Marjorie.

He was drunk all right.

He was very fond of it.

“There it is,” he said.

Mantegna he did not like.

He looked on at her back.

He was really very fast.

He was nervously unsteady.

And he never told anybody.

He talked about it a little.

He liked to get into fights.

He felt it through the door.

He turned and shut the gate.

He was delighted with Italy.

“Retana,” he said, listening.

“This is the queen,” he said.

He had been hit in the spine.

He lay there for a long time.

He knew how big a man he was.

He bent over the Indian woman.

He seemed very glad to see me.

It was awful while he was gone.

Why did he kill himself, Daddy?

He picked up the two cant-hooks.

“That’s about right,” he called.

He couldn’t hardly lift his arm.

“They aren’t striking,” he said.

“But it will go better,” he said.

He used this instead of a ticket.

He spat tobacco juice on the log.

“See, it’s a boy, Nick,” he said.

He sat with the gun on his knees.

He was Spider Kelly’s star pupil.

He didn’t seem to notice her much.

He had to stop and wash his hands.

Each time he felt the horn coming.

He couldn’t stand things, I guess.

He was afraid to look at Marjorie.

He felt Bill coming up to the fire.

It was a beautiful country, he said.

He loved the mountains in the autumn.

“Retana,” he said and banged the door.