`` There isn't anything left to say, is there, Keith ''??

There was a measure of protection in its concrete walls and ceiling, but the engineers who hastily installed it were well aware that concrete is not much better than prayer, if as efficacious, when a direct hit comes along.

There is nothing for you '', Matsuo said.

There is much truth in both these charges, and not many Bourbons deny them.

There is unceasing pressure, but its sources are immediate.

There is little time for the men in the command centers to reflect about the implications of these clocks.

There is no room for error or waste.

There is a New South emerging, a South losing the folksy traditions of an agrarian society with the rapidity of an avalanche -- especially within recent decades.

There is a haunting resemblance between the notion of cause in Copernicus and in Freud.

There is still the remote possibility of planetoid collision.

There is the unexplainable, and there art raises questions that it does not attempt to answer ''.

There is nothing holy in wedlock.

There is no more `` plot '' than that ; ;

There is a legend ( Hawthorne records it in his `` English Notebooks ''.

It consists of fragmentary personal revelations, such as `` The Spark '': `` There is a spark dwells deep within my soul.

There is only one catch to this idyllic arrangement: Adam Smith was wrong.

Harris J. Griston, in Shaking The Dust From Shakespeare ( 216 ), writes: `` There is not a word spoken by Shylock which one would expect from a real Jew ''.

There is no justification for such misrepresentation.

There is no socially existential answer to the question.

There is probably some significance in the fact that two of the best incest stories I have encountered in recent years are burlesques of the incest myth.

There is no necessity, I suppose, to assert that Mr. Faulkner is Southern.

There is evidence to suggest, in fact, that many authors of the humorous sketches were prompted to write them -- or to make them as indelicate as they are -- by way of protesting against the artificial refinements which had come to dominate the polite letters of the South.

There may be a case of this sort, but it is not one we wish to argue, here.

There was no one but me.

There was brush, and stands of pine that no grass could grow under, and places so steep that cattle wouldn't stop to graze.

There was no chance.

There was no moon.

There was to be no gunplay.

There had been no sign of a rifleman and no track or trace to show that anyone had been near.

There were no tracks of either hoofs or boots.

There was no lock on the door, only an iron hook which he unfastened.

There were no less than six or seven saloons in Ganado, not counting the lower class dives, all vying for the trade of celebrating miners and teamsters.

There was, of course, no way for the other planes to get by them.

There was no time to pick out a penny ; ;

There was no valley like this on your map.

There was no real sign of the river now, just a roiling, oily ribbon of liquid movement through muddy waters that reached everywhere.

There was no doubt that Herr Schaffner meant every word of what he said.

There was no reply so he shoved it open with his foot and stepped inside.

There are almost no fictional treatments of the industrialized south ''.

There is another kind of ardor, a quiet, sure devotion to the fundamental decencies of human life, but no angry utopian contentions.

There were no reasons for such suppositions then.