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.

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 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 were seven of them, enough for a show of strength -- to run a bluff.

There is nothing for you '', Matsuo said.

There ain't nobody askin' for your ticket stub, neither ''.

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

There were two rubbing sticks for making fire, two stones shaped roughly like knives, a woven-root container which held a few pounds of dried worms and the dead body of some rodent.

There are in The Almagest no rules for determining in advance whether a new epicycle will be required for dealing with abberations in lunar, solar, or planetary behavior.

There is a second feature of the influences of literature, good literature, on emotional life which may have some special value for our time.

There was talk of dragging old ex-President Cleveland out of retirement for another try.

There is indeed a moral responsibility on man himself, for his own soul's sake, to respect lower life and to avoid the infliction of suffering, but this viewpoint Schweitzer rejects.

There is impressive consistency between specific occupational preferences and the student's basic conception of what is for him a good way of life.

There was much sickness in the corps, and the men were, in addition, without the clothing, shoes, and blankets needed for the winter weather.

There was no time in the short Mexican encounter to evolve a solution but the area provided a proving ground for new departures in the near future.

There is, of course, nothing new about dystopias, for they belong to a literary tradition which, including also the closely related satiric utopias, stretches from at least as far back as the eighteenth century and Swift's Gulliver's Travels to the twentieth century and Zamiatin's We, Capek's War With The Newts, Huxley's Brave New World, E. M. Forster's `` The Machine Stops '', C. S. Lewis's That Hideous Strength, and Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, and which in science fiction is represented before the present deluge as early as Wells's trilogy, The Time Machine, `` A Story Of The Days To Come '', and When The Sleeper Wakes, and as recently as Jack Williamson's `` With Folded Hands '' ( 1947 ), the classic story of men replaced by their own robots.

There were a few reasons for that, too: Garibaldi had been taken up and exploited by the Communists nowadays.

There are only two men remaining in Congress who, with Rayburn, voted for the declaration of war against Germany in 1917.

There was good reason for Gen. Taylor to make an inspection trip at this time.

There is room for disagreement concerning some of Dr. Conant's specific views.

There are many causes for this change.

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.