Let’s go there.

There was no answer.

There was no answer.

I know somebody there.

There was no need of that.

There is an Indian lady very sick.

There were chimney swifts in the sky.

He’s there, all right, Manuel thought.

There was a mist coming up from the bay.

“Who’s there?” said someone in the office.

There were pools of water in the courtyard.

At the lake shore there was another rowboat drawn up.

There were six or seven of them including two priests.

It was dim and quiet, and there were other people praying.

There was farming country and timber each way up the road.

There were wet dead leaves on the paving of the courtyard.

There were only a few patients, and they all knew about it.

There were four big beech logs lying almost buried in the sand.

In the shanty nearest the road there was a light in the window.

There was a great shouting going on in the grandstand overhead.

Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was someone in the room.

“There. That gets it,” said his father and put something into the basin.

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

It was lonely and rainy there, and there was a battalion of arditi quartered in the town.

It was a four gallon jug and there was quite a little slopped back and forth in the bottom.

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

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

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air.

There was no moon and they walked ankle deep in the sandy road through the trees down to the dock and the warehouse on the bay.

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.

There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked⁠—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

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 had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York⁠—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land.

“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.

There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym.

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see.

There was the general store and postoffice with a high false front and maybe a wagon hitched out in front, Smith’s house, Stroud’s house, Fox’s house, Horton’s house and Van Hoosen’s house.

Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

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.

If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.

When they all stepped back on the scaffolding back of the drop, which was very heavy, built of oak and steel and swung on ball bearings, Sam Cardinella was left sitting there strapped tight with the rope around his neck, the younger of the two priests kneeling beside the chair holding up a little crucifix.

Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.