Whatever I needed to know, I did not want him to think the problem was his choice of words.

He carried the backpack into the hall and set it on the bench by the front door.

By six, the light outside was slate gray.

Ronald’s tires crunched on the driveway, and his headlights crossed the kitchen window.

He came inside carrying his leather briefcase.

“Good evening, Claire.”

My husband was forty, but his stiff posture and careful movements often made him seem older.

He unbuttoned his dark coat, hung it on the brass hook, and smoothed the wool with his palm.