Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young Indian woman.

The young Indian pulled the boat way up the beach.

Young Buckley came in with his patrol from across the river.

The young Indian shoved the camp boat off and got in to row Uncle George.

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

The young Indian stopped and blew out his lantern and they all walked on along the road.

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

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.

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

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon.

She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet.

Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one hundred and five or two hundred and five pounds.

Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

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.

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.

Most of the confidences were unsought⁠—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.