fiction

Mohr the blacksmith, Hermann Mohr's father, lived at the corner of bath Street in a queer, old, rather, sombre-looking house with a steep little pavement running up to it, and then a few steps of red sandstone.

The little car shot along quietly but swiftly behind its converging headlight beams.

When the hands on his watch were exactly perpendicular, he would give her the medicine.

He sat sideways to the window and at an angle towards the door slightly ajar to show a narrow vertical strip of the corridor and the head of the stairs.

When I came in

It wasn't that she expected marriage to be a happily ever after proposition or anything like that.

Great Aunt lived to die.

To the voice answering his call, he repeated the word.

Martha Ellen of the swollen breasts, schoolgirl in the wintertime, walked out the schoolyard with the rest of the kids, but at the same time, alone.

Mr. Harvey didn't call me that day until seven o'clock in the evening.