One day they were sitting at the table working on coloring books when Alex came home early.
He was sitting at a table across and down from them.
On the other table, round which many people were crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his head thrown back.
She rested her chin on her palm, elbow on the table, and stared at him.
One of the chairs pushed back from the table, and this was so astonishing and mysterious that Dorothy was almost tempted to run away in fright.
For a whole evening she will sit at the table writing whatever comes into her busy brain; and I seldom find any difficulty in reading what she has written.
One man, perhaps, if he has got enough, will be satisfied to sit all day with his back to the fire and his belly to the table, by George!
He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table--on which stood a glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle--moved close to the bed, and putting on his spectacles he began reading.
No, tell them to bring a small table out here, my dear boy.
For the most part, the facial expressions of those sitting around the table were sympathetic, but Dulce looked as if she was ready to break into tears.
Jonathan knocked a lamp off the table and it shattered.
She was stacking bowls on the table for ice cream and cake when lights turned into the drive.
He closed his book and placed it on the end table and rose lithely from the chair.
The lint he tucked back into his pocket, and the ring he tossed on the table in front of Adrienne.
Brandon retired to a table nearby and it was all Adrienne could do to keep her mind on the interview.
Cynthia Turley was in the middle of cleaning his favorite table when he walked through the diner door.
She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands, staring out into the night.
Then he slipped quickly under the table and hid himself.
I read the letter at the supper-table, and Mrs. Keller exclaimed: "My, Miss Annie, Helen writes almost as well as that now!"
I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.
"Won't you come over to the other table?" suggested Anna Pavlovna.
But won't you come to this other table? repeated Anna Pavlovna.
The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into it, fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at the table to write to the governor.
When he had dismissed the generals Kutuzov sat a long time with his elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question: When, when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable?
And in the middle was a rough table with benches around it instead of chairs.
They were just rising from the table when they heard a great noise in the street.
Princess Mary saw Dessalles' embarrassed and astonished look fixed on her father, noticed his silence, and was struck by the fact that her father had forgotten his son's letter on the drawing-room table; but she was not only afraid to speak of it and ask Dessalles the reason of his confusion and silence, but was afraid even to think about it.
(At the mention of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.)
But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which was lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door.
He sat down at the dusty writing table, and, having laid the manuscripts before him, opened them out, closed them, finally pushed them away, and resting his head on his hand sank into meditation.
He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it with unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor.
The crowd drew up to the large table, at which sat gray-haired or bald seventy-year-old magnates, uniformed and besashed almost all of whom Pierre had seen in their own homes with their buffoons, or playing boston at the clubs.
He took a pack of cards that lay on the table and began to lay them out for a game of patience.
He wrapped the bottle up to its neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for Pierre.
Ramballe emptied his too, again pressed Pierre's hand, and leaned his elbows on the table in a pensive attitude.
"But perhaps that's my shirt on the table," he thought, "and that's my legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing itself out, and 'piti-piti-piti' and 'ti-ti' and 'piti-piti-piti'...?
Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved stock which Gerasim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered where he was and what lay before him that very day.
He had pictured each of those young ladies as almost all honest-hearted young men do, that is, as a possible wife, adapting her in his imagination to all the conditions of married life: a white dressing gown, his wife at the tea table, his wife's carriage, little ones, Mamma and Papa, their relations to her, and so on--and these pictures of the future had given him pleasure.
When the body, washed and dressed, lay in the coffin on a table, everyone came to take leave of him and they all wept.
In ten minutes the table was ready and a napkin spread on it.
On the table were vodka, a flask of rum, white bread, roast mutton, and salt.
How splendid! said he to himself when a cleanly laid table was moved up to him with savory beef tea, or when he lay down for the night on a soft clean bed, or when he remembered that the French had gone and that his wife was no more.