Metonymy

Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

When all at once I saw a crowd,

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.

Phileas Fogg was one of those mathematically exact people, who, never hurried and always ready, are economical of their steps and their motions.

A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by moment.

She had wanted to see life, and fortune had favoured her in a manner which now, as she looked about her, struck her as almost grotesque.

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.

He was there, asleep on the bare floor.

costliness and splendor with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were

to. He profiled directly in front of the bull, drew the sword out of the folds of the muleta and sighted along the blade.

were coming toward where the flag was and I went along the fence. Luster was

Brrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiing! An alarm clock clanged in the dark and silent room. A bed spring creaked. A woman's voice sang out impatiently: "Bigger, shut that thing off!"

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.

Barrabás came to us by sea, the child Clara wrote in her delicate calligraphy.

124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children.

It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days.

My mother's name was Mercy Stone Goodwill. She was only thirty years old when she took sick, a boiling hot day, standing there in her back kitchen, making a Malvern pudding for her husband's supper.

She had been born here; her mother and grandmother were buried there. All she knew of the world was right here.