...of deliberation

Long after the carriages had started, and the castle was already out of sight, Uvar Ivanovich was still unable to calm down. At last Shubin, who was again travelling with him in the chaise, managed to make him ashamed of himself.

But Insarov was feeling conscience-stricken. He sat in the carriage opposite Elena (Bersyenev was on the box) and said nothing; she, too, was silent. He thought she was blaming him for what had happened, but she was not. True, she had been very frightened during the first minute or two; then she had been struck by the expression on his face; and then she had begun to think - though she was not quite clear what she thought. The emotion which she had experienced during the day had gone - that she realised; but it had given place to something else, something which she still did not understand.

[On The Eve, Turgenev, I. S.]

...of comparison

The page-boy announced the arrival of the two friends and they came into the room; Bersyenev introduced Insarov. Elena asked them to be seated and herself sat down while Zoya went upstairs to warn Anna Vassilyevna. The conversation which ensued was trivial enough, like all first conversations. Shubin looked on from a corner in silence, but there was really nothing particular to be seen. In Elena he observed signs of suppressed irritation with him, Shubin - and that was all. He looked at Insarov and Bersyenev and, in the way of a sculptor, compared their faces. Neither, he thought, was good-looking in himself; the Bulgarian's face had character, was sculpturesque and just now it was well-lighted; the Russian seemed rather to call for the art of the painter; there were strong lines there, but there was no personality. But when all was said, a girl might well fall in love with either of them. She wasn't in love yet, but she would come to love Bersyenev; that was his conclusion.

[On The Eve, Turgenev, I. S.]

...of a night's walk

The night was warm and somehow exceptionally silent; it was as if everything around was listening and watching, and Bersyenev, gripped by the still darkness, stopped involuntarily and likewise listened and watched. A faint sound like the rustle of a woman's dress started up intermittently in the tops of the near-by trees, and aroused in Bersyenev a sensation of sweetness, of mystery, almost of fear; his skin tingled, his eyes were chilled with momentary tears; he felt he wanted to tread quite silently, to walk on tip-toe, to conceal himself; a keen wind blew from the side and made him shudder slightly and stop dead; a sleepy beetle fell from a branch and bumped on the road - he cried 'Oh' softly, and stopped again. But he began to think of Elena and all those fleeting impressions vanished at once: there remained only the invigorating sense of the night's freshness, of the night's walk; his whole being was filled with the young girl's image. Bersyenev was walking with his head bowed, recalling her words, her questions... He thought he heard the tramp of hurried steps behind him. He listened...someone was running, someone was overtaking him - he heard gasps of breath - and suddenly, out of the black circle of shadow cast by a large tree, hatless, his hair dishevelled, all pale in the light of the moon, Shubin emerged before him.

[On The Eve, Turgenev, I. S.]

...of bewilderment

There were one or two answering sniggers, but the Queen did not appear to notice that a joke had actually been made (as indeed it scarcely had). 'No, Home Secretary. But then books, as I'm sure you know, seldom prompt a course of action. Books generally just confirm you in what you have, perhaps unwittingly, decided to do already. You go to a book to have your convictions corroborated. A book, as it were, closes the book.'

Some of the councillors, long since out of government, were thinking that this was not the woman they remembered serving and were fascinated accordingly. But for the most part the gathering sat in uneasy silence, few of them having any idea what she was talking about. And the Queen knew it. 'You're puzzled,' she said, unperturbed, 'but I promise you, you do know this in your own sphere.'

[The Uncommon Reader, Bennet, A.]

...of making and following commands

The Queen gave her wide smile. The interview was over. How the Queen conveyed this information had always been a mystery to Sir Claude, but it was as plain as if a bell had been rung. He struggled to his feet as the equerry opened the door, bowed his head, then when he reached the door turned and bowed his head again, then slowly stumped down the corridor on his two sticks, one of them a present from the Queen Mother.

Back in the room the Queen opened the window wider and let the breeze blow in from the garden. The equerry returned, and raising her eyebrows the Queen indicated the chair on which Sir Claude had been sitting, now with a damp patch staining the satin. Silently the young man bore the chair away, while the Queen gathered up her book and her cardigan preparatory to going into the garden.

[The Uncommon Reader, Bennet, A.]

...of a prelude to sleep

Sir Claude nodded gravely, not having read Swift and reflecting that he seemed to be getting nowhere.

They sat for a moment in silence, but it was long enough for Sir Claude to fall asleep. This had seldom happened to the Queen and when it had (a government minister nodding off alongside her at some ceremony, for instance) her reaction had been brisk and unsympathetic. She was often tempted to fall asleep, as with her job who wouldn't be, but now, rather than wake the old man she just waited, listening to his laboured breathing and wondering how long it would be before infirmity overtook her and she became similarly incapable. Sir Claude had come with a message, she understood that and resented it, but perhaps he was a message in his own person, a portent of the unpalatable future.

[The Uncommon Reader, Bennet, A.]

...of a queen struck dumb

It was exciting to be with writers she had come to think of as her friends and whom she longed to know. But now, when she was aching to declare her fellow feeling with those whose books she had read and admired, she found she had nothing to say. She, who had seldom in her life been intimidated by anyone, now found herself tongue-tied and awkward, 'I adored your book,' would have said it all, but fifty years of composure and self-possession plus half a century of understatement stood in the way. Hard put for conversation, she found herself falling back on some of her stock stand-bys. It wasn't quite 'How far did you have to come?' but their literary equivalent. 'How do you think of your characters? Do you work regular hours? Do you use a word-processor?' - questions which she knew were cliches and were embarrassing to inflict had the awkward silence not been worse.

[The Uncommon Reader, Bennet, A.]