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

Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on.

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

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.