We’re not patriots.

You’re not my mother.

I did not say anything.

Mantegna he did not like.

But her screams are not important.

I am not really a good bull fighter!

Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn.

The bull could not make up his mind to charge.

I don’t hear them because they are not important.

“No,” he said, very shyly, he did not like Mantegna.

Maera wanted to say something and found he could not talk.

The major did not marry her in the spring, or any other time.

They did not even remember that he was middleweight boxing champion.

Of course, the great thing in this sort of an affair is not to be shot oneself.

Ag would not come home until he had a good job and could come to New York to meet her.

The revolutionary committee, he told me, would not allow him to go outside the palace grounds.

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

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

On the train from Padua to Milan they quarreled about her not being willing to come home at once.

It was understood he would not drink, and he did not want to see his friends or anyone in the States.

After he got on crutches he used to take the temperatures so Ag would not have to get up from the bed.

When they had to say goodbye, in the station at Milan, they kissed goodbye, but were not finished with the quarrel.

They wanted to get married, but there was not enough time for the banns, and neither of them had birth certificates.

He went under the anaesthetic holding tight on to himself so he would not blab about anything during the silly, talky time.

They felt as though they were married, but they wanted everyone to know about it, and to make it so they could not lose it.

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.

In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.

I lived at West Egg, the⁠—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them.

She was sorry, and she knew he would probably not be able to understand, but might some day forgive her, and be grateful to her, and she expected, absolutely unexpectedly, to be married in the spring.

They are not perfect ovals⁠—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end⁠—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead.

Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body⁠—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat.

This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”⁠—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.