We kill them.

We shot them.

We kill them all right.

The street full of them.

More dogs rushed out at them.

She snapped them out with her fingers.

He reads deep books with long words in them.

“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.

He and Ag could hear them below on the balcony.

The two Indians sent them back to the shanties.

I don’t hear them because they are not important.

A. J. Smith sent for glasses and Liz brought them.

The others went down and took the bottles with them.

There were six or seven of them including two priests.

And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

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

Jim pulled the burlap sacks off the deer and Liz looked at them.

Liz and Mrs. Smith were cooking for four days for them before they started.

If no one came for them they would be left to waterlog and rot on the beach.

Carts were jammed solid on the bridge with camels bobbing along through them.

Nick heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist.

He pushed the magazine full of the heavy yellow shells and pumped them out again.

“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

Fifteen came in a bunch to the front and he sorted them by the dates and read them all straight through.

“If you think the logs are stolen, leave them alone and take your tools back to the camp,” the doctor said.

Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved it off and one of them got in to row.

But the lumbermen might never come for them because a few logs were not worth the price of a crew to gather them.

“That’s all right maybe this time,” said Drevitts, “but how did you know they were wops when you bumped them off?”

Giotto, Masaccio, and Piero della Francesca he bought reproductions of and carried them wrapped in a copy of Avanti.

They wanted to get married, but there was not enough time for the banns, and neither of them had birth certificates.

The Indian who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.

So I went down and caught up with them and grabbed him while he was crouched down waiting for the music to break loose and said, “Come on, Luis.”

When they stopped the music for the crouch he hunched down in the street with them all and when they started it again he jumped up and went dancing down the street with them.

I lived at West Egg, the⁠—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them.

When she looked at them they didn’t seem to be moving at all but if she went in and dried some more dishes and then came out again they would be out of sight beyond the point.

“Aint there something left in that crock Jimmy?” A. J. Smith asked and Jim went out to the wagon in the barn and fetched in the jug of whiskey the men had taken hunting with them.

Liz wanted to make something special for Jim to take but she didn’t finally because she was afraid to ask Mrs. Smith for the eggs and flour and afraid if she bought them Mrs. Smith would catch her cooking.

Nick’s father always assumed that this was what would happen, and hired the Indians to come down from the camp and cut the logs up with the crosscut saw and split them with a wedge to make cord wood and chunks for the open fireplace.

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.

They had drifted up onto the beach and if nothing were done about them sooner or later the crew of the Magic would come along the shore in a rowboat, spot the logs, drive an iron spike with a ring on it into the end of each one and then tow them out into the lake to make a new boom.

Most of the confidences were unsought⁠—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.