Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain.

Before he went back to the front they went into the Duomo and prayed.

Once the horn went all the way through him and he felt it go into the sand.

The picador twisted the stirrups straight and pulled and hauled up into the saddle.

He had so much equipment on and looked awfully surprised and fell down into the garden.

Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.

She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty.

At two o’clock in the morning two Hungarians got into a cigar store at Fifteenth Street and Grand Avenue.

Nick’s father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin.

Nick’s father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin.

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

He reported at Bologna, and I took him with me up into the Romagna where it was necessary I go to see a man.

Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills.

Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills.

The lieutenant kept riding his horse out into the fields and saying to him, “I’m drunk, I tell you, mon vieux.”

At Bologna he said goodbye to us to go on the train to Milano and then to Aosta to walk over the pass into Switzerland.

The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house.

He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.

Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end.

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started⁠—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room.

The crowd shouted all the time, and threw pieces of bread down into the bull ring, then cushions and leather wine bottles, keeping up whistling and yelling.

If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it⁠—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise⁠—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression⁠—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.

Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.

This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it⁠—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

I was rather literary in college⁠—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News⁠—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.