The lieutenant kept riding his horse out into the fields and saying to him, “I’m drunk, I tell you, mon vieux.”

A short time after he contracted gonorrhea from a sales girl in a loop department store riding in a taxicab through Lincoln Park.

We went along the road all night in the dark and the adjutant kept riding up alongside my kitchen and saying, “You must put it out.”

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.

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.