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Page "adventure" ¶ 79
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There and was
There was more to this than Jones had told him.
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.
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 and no
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 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 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 is no room for error or waste.
There are almost no fictional treatments of the industrialized south ''.
There is no more `` plot '' than that ; ;
There is no justification for such misrepresentation.
There is no socially existential answer to the question.
There is no selectivity ; ;
There is no necessity, I suppose, to assert that Mr. Faulkner is Southern.
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.

There and one
There was one object which sickened yet fascinated me.
( There are two receivers in case one should be dropped and damaged.
There was a divine justice in one wrong thus undoing another.
There was also a lesson, one that has served ever since to keep Americans, in their conflicts with one another, from turning from the ballot to the bullet.
There one finds concentrated in a comparatively small area the chief universities, colleges, and preparatory schools of the United States.
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 may be a case of this sort, but it is not one we wish to argue, here.
There was one particular word that troubled his conscience.
There was one time, however, when his face clouded and he suddenly blurted, `` Why did my brother commit suicide ''??
There was only one hitch: the small town of Kehl, on the other side of the Rhine, was still under French jurisdiction.
There was the Neapolitan, Ribas, a capable conniver whose father had been a blacksmith but who had fawned his way up the ladder of Catherine's and Potemkin's favor till he was now a brigadier ( and would one day be the daggerman designated to do in Czar Paul 1,, after traveling all the way to Naples to procure just the right stiletto ).
There was one further step in my religious progress.
There were several men of ninety or more whom I knew first or last, all of whom were still productive and most of whom knew one another as if they had naturally come together at the apex of their lives.
There were four from St. John's and four from Christ's, three from Pembroke, and two from each of the colleges, Jesus, Peterhouse, Queens', and Trinity, with Caius, Clare, King's, Magdalene, and Sidney supplying one each in the ordo senioritatis.
There is one thing I know ; ;
There is one danger, however.
There is one other point we should never lose sight of: Many veterans who enter VA hospitals as non-service cases later qualify as service-connected.
There are a number of other considerations besides this one but it is for the Congress, not the Department of Justice, to balance these various considerations and make a judgment about legislation.
There are 70 children there and the mothers donate one day a week to the school.
There were two liquor saloons not very far from the church, one white, that is conducted for white people with a side entrance for Negroes ; ;

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