Their officers were very fine.

They were still in their wrappers unopened.

The Hungarians were backing their wagon out of an alley.

They swung their weight against the shafts of the cant-hooks.

Eddy and Billy Tabeshaw leaned on their cant-hooks sweating in the sun.

Eddy and Billy Tabeshaw leaned on their cant-hooks and looked at the doctor.

They sunk the ends of their cant-hooks into one of the logs and swung against it to loosen it in the sand.

To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay.

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.

They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house.

In the fall he and Smith and Charley Wyman took a wagon and tent, grub, axes, their rifles and two dogs and went on a trip to the pine plains beyond Vanderbilt deer hunting.

They are not perfect ovals⁠—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end⁠—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire.

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.