There were tracks of cattle all over his six hundred and forty acres.

There were three other men within this prison whom Barton would have liked to liberate, but they were in other cell blocks.

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

There were no tracks of either hoofs or boots.

There were two horses in the barn, a sway-backed dun and Jess Crouch's buckskin.

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

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 were gigantic blisters and rope burns on our hands ; ;

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 were fantastic flowers without perfume, and gaudy birds without song.

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 were fences in the old days when we were children.

There were more indications by the mid-twentieth century.

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 were three years of this strange warfare ; ;

There never were two fames alike.

There were times that he worked with both lyricists simultaneously.

There is a mediocre restaurant at Sounion and I fed a thin little Grecian cat and gave it two saucers of water -- there was no milk -- which it lapped up as though it were nectar.

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

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 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.