Liz liked Jim very much.

He didn’t seem to notice her much.

She liked it how much A. J. Smith and Mrs. Smith liked Jim.

She liked it very much that he didn’t look like a blacksmith.

He had been in many towns, walked much, and seen many pictures.

In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took to wearing spectacles.

It was much lighter on the logging road as the timber was cut away on both sides.

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

He thanked me very much, but his mind was already looking forward to walking over the pass.

He was a good horseshoer and did not look much like a blacksmith even with his leather apron on.

Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn.

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

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air.

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.

They were all about the hospital, and how much she loved him and how it was impossible to get along without him and how terrible it was missing him at night.

Finally the bull was too tired from so much sticking and folded his knees and lay down and one of the cuadrilla leaned out over his neck and killed him with the puntillo.

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.

In 1919 he was traveling on the railroads in Italy, carrying a square of oilcloth from the headquarters of the party written in indelible pencil and saying here was a comrade who had suffered very much under the Whites in Budapest and requesting comrades to aid him in any way.