The whole town is desolate.

He would go into town on Saturday.

He might go into town Saturday night.

Things were getting forward in the town.

“Wouldn’t it be hell to be in town?” Bill said.

In the old days Hortons Bay was a lumbering town.

Still he could always go into town Saturday night.

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

Hortons Bay, the town, was only five houses on the main road between Boyne City and Charlevoix.

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

Its open hold covered with canvas and lashed tight, the sails of the schooner filled and it moved out into the open lake, carrying with it everything that had made the mill a mill and Hortons Bay, a town.

Living in the muddy, rainy town in the winter, the major of the battalion made love to Ag, and she had never known Italians before, and finally wrote to the States that theirs had been only a boy and girl affair.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea.