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

The whole battery was drunk going along the road in the dark.

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.”

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

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

Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton.

He was very eager to walk over the pass while the weather held good.

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

The corridor was high and narrow with tiers of cells on either side.

They did not even remember that he was middleweight boxing champion.

Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college.

The woman in the kitchen motioned to the doctor that the water was hot.

He didn’t listen to me, he was listening so hard for the music to start.

The houses were in a big grove of elm trees and the road was very sandy.

She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker.

He liked her face because it was so jolly but he never thought about her.

She loved him as always, but she realized now it was only a boy and girl love.

Finally the officer told the soldiers it was no good trying to make him stand up.

It was much lighter on the logging road as the timber was cut away on both sides.

It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

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

He was very shy and quite young and the train men passed him on from one crew to another.

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

He thanked me very much, but his mind was already looking forward to walking over the pass.

He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened.

When they fired the first volley he was sitting down in the water with his head on his knees.

Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man.

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

Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name.

He was a good horseshoer and did not look much like a blacksmith even with his leather apron on.

Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner.

Mrs. Smith, who was a very large clean woman, said Liz Coates was the neatest girl she’d ever seen.

Nick’s father ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while it was heating he spoke to Nick.

It was understood he would not drink, and he did not want to see his friends or anyone in the States.

I went back to the hotel and Maera was on the balcony looking out to see if I’d be bringing him back.

Up the road a ways was the Methodist church and down the road the other direction was the township school.

Liz had good legs and always wore clean gingham aprons and Jim noticed that her hair was always neat behind.

He reported at Bologna, and I took him with me up into the Romagna where it was necessary I go to see a man.

He was very short with a brown face and quite drunk and he said, “After all, it has happened before like that.”

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America.

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

We went to work on the trench and in the morning the sun came up and the day was hot and muggy and cheerful and quiet.

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

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.

Over his head was a bull’s head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bullfight posters.

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

They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with dew, following the young Indian who carried a lantern.

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