There was something about the contour of her face, her smile that was like New Orleans sunshine, the way she held her head, the way she walked -- there was scarcely anything she did which did not fascinate me.

There, to the Evening Post, she emphatically denied the divorce rumors and explained that she had stayed behind because of the schooling of their son, which henceforth would be strictly American.

There were times now, like this, when she lost control of the time count and moved freely back and forth into three generations.

There was one of the new forte-pianos in the room and, as Claire rose to go, he asked her to sing him one song before she left.

There she extracted two limp vellum sheets and wrote off the letters, one to Abel, one to Mark.

There is a death in all partings, she knew, and promptly put it out of her mind.

There was not anything she could do there, but that was where everyone was, or would be.

There were times it wasn't right to make a person happy, like the times she came in the kitchen and asked know we don't keep peanut `` butter for a peanut butter sandwich.

There is reason to suppose that Lucy would have made a record as publicly distinguished as her brother had it not been that her mother's death occurred just as she was about to enter college.

There was a wet spot -- she couldn't have been gone long ''.

There they continued their studies at the university, she in art, he in architecture.

There also came a brief contretemps with the sound mixers who made the mistake of being overheard during a quiet moment near the conclusion of `` Do It Again '', and she made the tart observation that `` I never saw so much moving about in an audience ''.

There was a letter to write to her mother, and she tried to make its tone cheerful.

There was a momentary pause, and then her mother said, `` How long is she supposed to stay ''??

There she walked to the far left and leaned on a vacant section of banister, while the vendor picked himself another well-dressed American lady, carrying a camera and a handsome alligator bag, ascending the steps alone.

There are two types of allophones, based on whether a phoneme must be pronounced using a specific allophone in a specific situation, or whether the speaker has freedom to ( unconsciously ) choose which allophone he or she will use.

In 2007, she wrote that she did not want to belittle the issue but was sceptical of the claims that specific actions would prevent catastrophe, then in 2008 that her doubts had been “ crystalised ” by Nigel Lawson's book An Appeal to Reason, before stating in 2009 that " There is no climate change, hasn ’ t anybody looked out of their window recently?

Fay disappears, and hiding from the police, admits that she hopes for one miracle-for a hero who can come and deliver the town from the madness (“ There Won't Be Trumpets ”).

There is uncertainty about her intentions when she tells Job to curse God but it is clear that Job honors her by the way he talks about her in Chapter 31.

There she sketched and explored an area that nourished her imagination and her observation.

There is a belief that she was buried between platforms 9 and 10 in King's Cross station in London, England.

There was more to this than Jones had told him.

There was no one but me.

There was a ragged volley.

There was only one place where Jake Carwood's description had gone badly awry: the peace and quiet.

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 an artificial lake just out of sight in the first stand of trees, fed by a half dozen springs that popped out of the ground above the hillside orchard.

There was no chance.

There was no moon.

There a dozen giant monitors played their seventy-five-foot jets of water against the huge seam of tertiary gravel which was the mountainside.

There was only one place where the mountain might receive her -- that unnamed, unnameable pool harbored in its secret bosom.

There was a peculiar density about it, a thick substance that could be sensed but never identified, never actually perceived.

There was some idle talk, a listless discussion of this or that small happening during the day's drive.

There was to be no gunplay.

There was a light in Black's front room, but drawn curtains prevented any view of the interior.

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

There was raw fury in his eyes, and the veins of his neck were swollen.

There was a feeling that this mission would be canceled like all the others and that this muddy wet dark world of combat would go on forever.

There was not enough room to make the usual vertical bomb run.

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 a blur just under my focus of vision, a crash ; ;

There had been a good second or two during which my muffler had been blowing out, and now I was certain I'd seen her somewhere before.