She’s three years old.

An old woman stood in the doorway holding a lamp.

All the old women in the camp had been helping her.

He bought the blacksmith shop from old man Horton.

A big old wrought-iron grating from the front of a house.

The old men and women, soaked through, walking along keeping the cattle moving.

His father picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breathe and handed it to the old woman.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all.

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

I had a dog⁠—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away⁠—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.