Over to the Indian camp.

He bent over the Indian woman.

That’s why I came over tonight.

The sun was coming up over the hills.

He rolled his head over and swallowed.

Liz leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Then three more came over further down the wall.

Villalta became one with the bull and then it was over.

The first German I saw climbed up over the garden wall.

We waited till he got one leg over and then potted him.

It was cold but Liz was hot all over from being with Jim.

The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.

Liz took off her coat and leaned over and covered him with it.

They tried to get over it, and we potted them from forty yards.

It flopped over his shoulder and made a musical sound as he walked.

He was very eager to walk over the pass while the weather held good.

She walked over to the edge of the dock and looked down to the water.

Too heavy to lift and you could shoot through it and they would have to climb over it.

There was a woman having a kid with a young girl holding a blanket over her and crying.

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

One of Jim’s hands went inside her dress and stroked over her breast and the other hand was in her lap.

One hot evening in Milan they carried him up onto the roof and he could look out over the top of the town.

When they came toward him with the cap to go over his head Sam Cardinella lost control of his sphincter muscles.

They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away.

Jim came over back of her chair and stood there and she could feel him breathing and then he put his arms around her.

At Bologna he said goodbye to us to go on the train to Milano and then to Aosta to walk over the pass into Switzerland.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

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.

She liked it the way he walked over from the shop and often went to the kitchen door to watch for him to start down the road.

Over his head was a bull’s head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bullfight posters.

He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.

Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward.

All the men had beards and there were three deer in the back of the wagon, their thin legs sticking stiff over the edge of the wagon box.

She bit Uncle George on the arm and Uncle George said, “Damn squaw bitch!” and the young Indian who had rowed Uncle George over laughed at him.

All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why⁠—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces.

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.

The crowd came over the barrera and around the torero and two men grabbed him and held him and someone cut off his pigtail and was waving it and a kid grabbed it and ran away with it.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

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.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans.

A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it⁠—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens⁠—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run.