It was cold on the water.

It slid off, thinning in the water.

Nick trailed his hand in the water.

There were pools of water in the courtyard.

A bass jumped, making a circle in the water.

Water buffalo and cattle were hauling carts through the mud.

She walked over to the edge of the dock and looked down to the water.

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

The water was lapping in the piles and the point was dark across the bay.

They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water.

Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.

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

Eddy and Billy Tabeshaw had rocked the log out of the wet sand and rolled it toward the water.

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

Nick’s father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin.

“Those must boil,” he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basin of hot water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp.

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.

My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires⁠—all for eighty dollars a month.

Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.