From the first it went with a rare swing, incident following incident, every trait of character presented objectively in fine scorn of analysis.

There were little pen pictures of grim scenes faultless in their definition and restraint.

There was a girl in it, a wild, clean-limbed, woodland thing who especially moved my admiration.
The more I read the more fascinated did I become, and the more did I doubt whether a single line in it had been written by Adrian Boldero.
After a long spell, I took out my watch.

It was twenty past one.

We lunched at half-past.