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

There was something about his face that disturbed me and it took several seconds to realize what.

There are many domains in which understanding has brought about widespread and quite appropriate reduction in ritual and fear.

Said: `` There are things I must tell you about this man you are marrying which he does not know himself ''.

There had been something sinister about him that warned me against him, -- I had never felt that way about any other boy, -- but when he uttered his name on the telephone I had forgotten this and I was glad to do what he asked of me.

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 are some clubs which claim they learned something about pitching to him last year.

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 was something maimed and crazy about its motion that disturbed them.

There is no such thing as being diligent about national affairs but indifferent about home needs.

There was an air of revolt about the children -- even irreverence for their own principles.

There are about 200 different kinds of Andrena in Europe alone.

There need be no squeamishness about admitting this.

There is therefore nothing about them to which an attitude of approval or condemnation could be fitting.

There is nothing remarkable about this at all.

There is only one sense in which it is valid to talk about Hardy's development: he did develop toward a more consistent and more effective control of that tone which we recognize as uniquely his.

There was the Hungarian Revolution which we praised and mourned, but did nothing about.

There is nothing infra dig about a good blend from a good shipper.

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 is a humorous but revealing story about a rancher who owned a large slice of Texas and who wanted to have on it everything that was necessary for a completely pleasant community.

There is much talk in theological circles about the `` Church as Mission '' and the `` Church's Mission '' ; ;