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.

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.