Self-explanatory, really. Feel free to add more as you make your guesses. (Short stories are fair game, too.)
It was love at first sight.
There were four of us–George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency.
It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days.
The primroses were over.
The snow in the mountain was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.
I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.
Papa is in his easy chair, reading the Sunday sports page.
As the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough parish church struck eight; it was two miles away, but the strokes were borne very distinctly on the west wind this autumn morning.
She had known all along that she was a queen, and now the crown proved it.
On page 22 of Liddell Hart’s The History of World War I, you will read that an attack against the Serbe-Montauban line by thirteen British divisions (supported by 1,400 artillery pieces), planned for the 24th of July, 1916, had to be postponed until the morning of the 29th.
Clare: It’s hard being left behind.
One thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it–it was the black kitten’s fault entirely.
Castle, ever since he had joined the firm as a young recruit more than thirty years ago, had taken his lunch in a public house behind St. James’s street, not far from the office.
My father had a face that could stop a clock.
Bottom half of the seventh, Brock’s boy had made it through another inning unscratched, one! two! three!
Tom glanced behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage, heading his way.
For a week Mr. R. Childan had been anxiously watching the mail.
Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom.
Please, God, let him telephone me now.
Grant lay on his high white cot and stared at the ceiling.
I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith. Recommended by someone here on the dope. I liked it a lot and gave a copy to the kid next door for Christmas last year. She took it to her Grandmother’s and Grandma went right to her bookshelf and pulled out her copy.
While the present century was in its teens, and on one sun-shiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton’s academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour.
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.
Brother Francis Gerard of Utah might never have discovered the blessed documents, had it not been for the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during that young novice’s Lenten fast in the desert.
One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
I’ll make my report as if I told a story, for I was taught as a child on my homeworld that Truth is a matter of the imagination.
Nobody guessed these last time we did this, so I’ll post 'em again.
“A sum of money is a leading character in this tale about people, just as a sum of honey might properly be a leading character in a tale about bees.”
“It had all been arranged by telegram; Jeremy Pordage was to look out for a coloured chauffeur in a grey uniform with a carnation in the button-hole; and the coloured chauffeur was to look out for a middle-aged Englishman carrying the Poetical Works of Wordsworth.”
Here are the unanswered ones from the OP (except by askeptic, which doesn’t count):
The primroses were over.
Papa is in his easy chair, reading the Sunday sports page.
As the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough parish church struck eight; it was two miles away, but the strokes were borne very distinctly on the west wind this autumn morning.
She had known all along that she was a queen, and now the crown proved it.
On page 22 of Liddell Hart’s The History of World War I, you will read that an attack against the Serbe-Montauban line by thirteen British divisions (supported by 1,400 artillery pieces), planned for the 24th of July, 1916, had to be postponed until the morning of the 29th.
Clare: It’s hard being left behind.
Castle, ever since he had joined the firm as a young recruit more than thirty years ago, had taken his lunch in a public house behind St. James’s street, not far from the office.
My father had a face that could stop a clock. (Kythereia might know this one!)
Bottom half of the seventh, Brock’s boy had made it through another inning unscratched, one! two! three!
Tom glanced behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage, heading his way.
For a week Mr. R. Childan had been anxiously watching the mail.
Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom.
And from later posts:
I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.
22.1 While the present century was in its teens, and on one sun-shiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton’s academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour.
22.2 You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
22.3 The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.
I’ll make my report as if I told a story, for I was taught as a child on my homeworld that Truth is a matter of the imagination.
25.1 A sum of money is a leading character in this tale about people, just as a sum of honey might properly be a leading character in a tale about bees."
25.2 It had all been arranged by telegram; Jeremy Pordage was to look out for a coloured chauffeur in a grey uniform with a carnation in the button-hole; and the coloured chauffeur was to look out for a middle-aged Englishman carrying the Poetical Works of Wordsworth.
25.3 So they killed our Ferdinand!
It was a nice day.
Friday, in the evening, the landlady shouted up the stairs: “Oh God, oh Jesus, Oh Sacred Heart.”
