He shrugged into his frock.
He shrugged into his coat and went to the kitchen door, thinking of the punky wood he and Jimmy had stacked in the shed over the weekend.
After the skirmish on the lawn, he'd shrugged into a pair of jeans and the first shirt he could find — a Hawaiian print, festive with palm fronds and miniature pineapples — and she saw that he'd misbuttoned it.
No wonder - motivation to do anything but loaf dissipates the second I shrug into a Snuggie.
'I know, I know', she said, her voice shrugging into the phone.
He would head out to Brooklyn or Long Island, shrug into scuba diving gear and, with others, explore long-sunken ships.
Walking out of the place on a cool Berlin night, shrugging into jackets after the heat and bustle within, two young men passed by the restaurant.
Darrieux and De Sica can't stop, but the musicians at the side of the room have had enough; they shrug into overcoats and leave, pausing only to light their cigars or snuff the candles that have illuminated the progress of love.
In the next moment she's in the front hall, shrugging into her faded blue parka, and then she's out in the air, heading down the path to where her property ends and the single-lane gravel road loops through the high chain-link gate and peters out in the beach area.
The new comedy from Jamie Babbit (But I'm a Cheerleader) reroutes Shame via Weekend at Bernie's, and pulls a neat switch in casting its central siblings: Judy Greer is the abrasive sex addict shrugging into a chambermaid gig in the titular no-horse-town, while a genial Natasha Lyonne attempts to clear up after sis accidentally brains a casual lay.
Van Vorst Park, on Jersey City's east side, is across town from where Mr. Dunleavy, 40, grew up, but it caught his imagination, said the 185-pounder who shrugs into his leather jacket as Johnny DeCarlo, an ex-con who uses Van Vorst Park the way John Gotti used his social club.
