I work for Uncle Bill on his ranch, and he pays me six dollars a month and my board.
The expression on Felipa's face reflected both humor and interest.
He was respectful of her concerns, but they didn't see eye-to-eye on any of it - except the fact that they both wanted another child.
I'll get supper on the table.
She slid over, cuddling close to him, her head on his pillow.
A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest."
Taking her in his arms, he held her close for a moment and then planted a kiss on her forehead.
He rolled up the newspaper and hit her playfully on the backside as she walked away.
When they finally got on the plane, she and Jonathan had a window seat - Jonathan in front of her.
He asked her to go back to Houston with him, enticing her with rides on the beach - and love all night.
Jumping out of the buggy he put Dorothy's suit-case under the seat and her bird-cage on the floor in front.
These are easy to spot: They rely on huge conceptual leaps without a framework to support them.
I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.
He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face.
It shall be on your family's behalf that I'll start my apprenticeship as old maid.
Strolling down to the footbridge, she leaned on the railing.
No, but I can't sit on the fence forever - and I do want another baby.
A warm hand rested on her waist.
Later, she lay in bed, tucked warmly under the covers as his boots clicked away from her on the hardwood floor - down the hall and into the den.
He slapped her on the backside playfully as she passed.
Nothing could be gained by dwelling on such thoughts.
He continued to avoid her gaze, focusing on Felipa instead.
It was impossible to know what was going on in Señor Medena's mind by observing his expression.
Bad science fiction plots, speculating on futures which could not really happen, are the worst examples of this.
I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.
The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland.
One day he would order his camp bed to be set up in the glass gallery, another day he remained on the couch or on the lounge chair in the drawing room and dozed there without undressing, while--instead of Mademoiselle Bourienne--a serf boy read to him.
On that subject she was adamant.
Staring out the bay window at the old house, she abandoned her coffee cup on the window sill.
Katie picked up the plate, her focus on Carmen.
They circled the room twice before a hand reached up and tapped Alex on the shoulder.
The retired naval man was speaking very boldly, as was evident from the expression on the faces of the listeners and from the fact that some people Pierre knew as the meekest and quietest of men walked away disapprovingly or expressed disagreement with him.
(He was well acquainted with the senator, but thought it necessary on this occasion to address him formally.)
I imagine," he went on, warming to his subject, "that the Emperor himself would not be satisfied to find in us merely owners of serfs whom we are willing to devote to his service, and chair a canon * we are ready to make of ourselves--and not to obtain from us any co-co-counsel."
With a sudden expression of malevolence on his aged face, Adraksin shouted at Pierre:
In historical works on the year 1812 French writers are very fond of saying that Napoleon felt the danger of extending his line, that he sought a battle and that his marshals advised him to stop at Smolensk, and of making similar statements to show that the danger of the campaign was even then understood.
The enormous Drissa camp was formed on Pfuel's plan, and there was no intention of retiring farther.
The battle was fought and thousands were killed on both sides.
On August 1, a second letter was received from Prince Andrew.
In this letter Prince Andrew pointed out to his father the danger of staying at Bald Hills, so near the theater of war and on the army's direct line of march, and advised him to move to Moscow.
At dinner that day, on Dessalles' mentioning that the French were said to have already entered Vitebsk, the old prince remembered his son's letter.
You know--under the paperweight on the little table.