I couldn’t get into it.

He liked to get into fights.

You might get back into it again.

He would go into town on Saturday.

He went out into the kitchen again.

He might go into town Saturday night.

“You can’t get peat into liquor,” Nick said.

Could not see it looking into the water, though.

Still he could always go into town Saturday night.

He poured the whisky into the glass Nick held out.

He poured water into his glass out of the pitcher.

Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain.

They sat looking into the fire and thinking of this profound truth.

The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk.

Before he went back to the front they went into the Duomo and prayed.

They sprinkled the surface like a handful of shot thrown into the water.

“There. That gets it,” said his father and put something into the basin.

He had noticed while looking into the fire that the fire was dying down.

He went upstairs into the loft and Nick heard him walking about overhead.

Once the horn went all the way through him and he felt it go into the sand.

He walked in the heat out the gate and along the path into the hemlock woods.

The rain stopped as Nick turned into the road that went up through the orchard.

The picador twisted the stirrups straight and pulled and hauled up into the saddle.

After supper they went into the front room again and Liz cleaned off with Mrs. Smith.

They started off and walked up past the cottage and out the back gate into the woods.

He had so much equipment on and looked awfully surprised and fell down into the garden.

Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.

He lay there while he heard Bill come into the clearing, walking around through the woods.

She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty.

At two o’clock in the morning two Hungarians got into a cigar store at Fifteenth Street and Grand Avenue.

They sunk the ends of their cant-hooks into one of the logs and swung against it to loosen it in the sand.

Nick’s father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin.

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

He reported at Bologna, and I took him with me up into the Romagna where it was necessary I go to see a man.

Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills.

The lumber schooners came into the bay and were loaded with the cut of the mill that stood stacked in the yard.

The lieutenant kept riding his horse out into the fields and saying to him, “I’m drunk, I tell you, mon vieux.”

At Bologna he said goodbye to us to go on the train to Milano and then to Aosta to walk over the pass into Switzerland.

The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house.

He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.

Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end.

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started⁠—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room.

The crowd shouted all the time, and threw pieces of bread down into the bull ring, then cushions and leather wine bottles, keeping up whistling and yelling.

If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it⁠—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see.

Its open hold covered with canvas and lashed tight, the sails of the schooner filled and it moved out into the open lake, carrying with it everything that had made the mill a mill and Hortons Bay, a town.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise⁠—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression⁠—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.

Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.