fiction

It was not until he saw her legs, obscene with straggling black hair and the purple knots of varicose veins, that Don realized she was there.

She wondered if the principal had finished running off her day's worksheets.

Mohr the blacksmith, Hermann Mohr's father, lived at the corner of bath Street in a queer, old, rather, sombre-looking house with a steep little pavement running up to it, and then a few steps of red sandstone.

The little car shot along quietly but swiftly behind its converging headlight beams.

When the hands on his watch were exactly perpendicular, he would give her the medicine.

He sat sideways to the window and at an angle towards the door slightly ajar to show a narrow vertical strip of the corridor and the head of the stairs.

When I came in

It wasn't that she expected marriage to be a happily ever after proposition or anything like that.

Great Aunt lived to die.

To the voice answering his call, he repeated the word.