Sailor hated his name as much as he hated the sea.

He stared into the eyes of death in the shape of a double-barreled shotgun held by a blond.

The long line of sailing ships heading down river was, like the leaves falling, a sure sign of the changing of the season.

The sculptor rushed headlong towards the river, the word "death" seeming to float among the buildings, but when he reached the bridge he was suddenly struck by the beauty of the dappled sunlight on the water and at once he was himself again.

For Mr. White loan sharking was a losing proposition, since he was now competing with the bankers.

All the wailing and gnashing of teeth gave the king a headache.

The sounds, like distant thunder cracks, meant that the war would soon by on their doorstep.