He drew deeply on his cigarette.

It was important, she reasoned, not to fall asleep in the dark where deviant things might carry her off.

He smiled in a way I found offensive.

She watched as the dirt kicked up in a cloud.

He frosted under heavy guard.

Picking up several of the plates, she began circulating around the room, exchanging pieces of pie for murmurs of sympathy.

Realizing he had only months to live, he quickly wrote his autobiography--in the third person as a thinly-cloaked and humorous novel.

Flipping on a small lamp, she scrounged through the dusty cubbyholes, discarding pens, note cards, thimbles and rubber bands until she found the scrap of paper she'd been looking for, a tattered piece of newspaper.

As soon as he met her, he took to her.

She felt alone and lost in that splendid city, so full of history and beauty.

So he sat and wondered and ate.

Now she seemed absolutely perfect, and the only puzzle was why she was with him.

She floated into the room, looking like Cinderella before midnight.

He didn't know how to use a tap!

She tried to calm it down but it just continued to flap and quack.

He suffered from boyish idiocy.

Sometimes she grew so angry that she thundered.

She urged him to leave her--to go to London and amuse himself: when he left her she smiled, when he returned she smiled.

It wasn't going to be easy but she knew it would be worth it.

He gathered his strength and will, and won the fight.