There was more whisky than water.

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

I guess he’s a better guy than Walpole.

“There’s always more to it than we know about,” Nick said.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

You can’t mix oil and water and you can’t mix that sort of thing any more than if I’d marry Ida that works for Strattons.

Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay.

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that.

The kid came out and had to kill five bulls because you can’t have more than three matadors, and the last bull he was so tired he couldn’t hardly get the sword in.

The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard⁠—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden.

They splashed more mud than the camions even and if one of the officers in the back was very small and sitting between two generals, he himself so small that you could not see his face but only the top of his cap and his narrow back, and if the car went especially fast it was probably the King.