Smiling, she went into the kitchen.
Jacob drew rather a dirty pocket-handkerchief across his face.

He went upstairs to his room.
The stag-beetle dies slowly (it was John who collected the beetles).
Even on the second day its legs were supple.

But the butterflies were dead.

A whiff of rotten eggs had vanquished the pale clouded yellows which came pelting across the orchard and up Dods Hill and away on to the moor, now lost behind a furze bush, then off again helter-skelter in a broiling sun.

A fritillary basked on a white stone in the Roman camp.
From the valley came the sound of church bells.