Where did Uncle George go?

“Where are we going, Dad?” Nick asked.

“I know where there’s black squirrels, Daddy,” Nick said.

The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk.

I wrote out for him where to eat in Milano and the addresses of comrades.

Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the Indian bark-peelers lived.

She walked back to where Jim was lying and shook him once more to make sure.

The doctor came running from the corral, where he had been sewing up picador horses.

The others went on ahead of him down to the lake shore where the logs were buried in the sand.

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

Nick sat against the wall of the church where they had dragged him to be clear of machine gun fire in the street.

“Aren’t you going back to work, dear?” asked the doctor’s wife from the room where she was lying with the blinds drawn.

Nick pulled hard on one oar so the boat would turn and the bait spinning far behind would pass where the trout was feeding.

They were trolling along the edge of the channel-bank where the bottom dropped off suddenly from sandy shallows to twelve feet of dark water.

He reeled in the slack line so the line ran taut out to where the bait rested on the sandy floor of the channel and set the click on the reel.

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.

It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.