It’s swell.

It’s driftwood.

Well, it’s over.

It’s a swell book.

It’s about Russia.

“It’s Scotch,” he said.

“It’s fine,” Nick said.

It’s none of my business.

“It’s a gift,” Bill said.

“It’s a symbol,” Bill said.

“It’s all right,” Bill said.

Oh it’s so big and it hurts so.

“It’s all right, dear,” she said.

“See, it’s a boy, Nick,” he said.

No, I think it’s pretty easy, Nick.

“It’s better than baseball,” Bill said.

“It’s the best time of year,” Nick said.

“It’s coming right off the big lake,” Nick said.

“So long as it’s over that’s all that matters,” Bill said.

“It’s good when the fall storms come, isn’t it?” Nick said.

“Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay.

“It’s getting too late to go around without socks,” he said.

But you always fall for somebody else and then it’s all right.

It’ll be all right for bait but it’s better with the ventral fin in.

“It’s got a swell, smoky taste,” Nick said, and looked at the fire through the glass.

Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on.