She looked at us all radiantly.

Her host looked at her incredulously.

Nick looked straight ahead brilliantly.

Nick turned his head and looked down at Rinaldi.

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.”

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice.

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

This isn’t just an epigram⁠—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face.

He tried five times and the crowd was quiet because it was a good bull and it looked like him or the bull and then he finally made it.

When she looked at them they didn’t seem to be moving at all but if she went in and dried some more dishes and then came out again they would be out of sight beyond the point.

To her son these words conveyed an extraordinary joy, as if it were settled the expedition were bound to take place, and the wonder to which he had looked forward, for years and years it seemed, was, after a night’s darkness and a day’s sail, within touch.