“Now, Doc⁠—”

She was quiet now and her eyes were closed.

Stretcher bearers would be along any time now.

He was sitting on his bed now, cleaning a shotgun.

All the time now Liz was thinking about Jim Gilmore.

“Now,” his father said, “there’s some stitches to put in.”

She loved him as always, but she realized now it was only a boy and girl love.

It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner.

Jim held her tight hard against the chair and she wanted it now and Jim whispered, “Come on for a walk.”

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”

Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe⁠—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business.

The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

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.”

His family were enormously wealthy⁠—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach⁠—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest.