Приклади речень англійська зі словом "linger"

Fadil didn't linger in the area.
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I think I'll just linger awhile.
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"But linger thou, nor count thy lingering vain, / though comrades chide, and breezes woo the fleet. / Approach the prophetess; with prayer unchain / her voice to speak."
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Make haste, and go ye up to my father, and say to him: Thus saith thy son Joseph: God hath made me lord of the whole land of Egypt; come down to me, linger not.
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As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.
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With each glass, it becomes clearer Mazzaglia has shown these Americans how to eat and drink like Italians. They linger over the Tuscan reds and nibble on tomato-topped bruschette. Strangers this morning exchange email addresses and promise to keep in touch.
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The saying reminds us that although pain may linger, time can bring comfort and healing.
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Don't linger.
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We didn't linger for him.
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Impressions linger long after the moment.
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They never linger in deserted areas.
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The effects of harsh words can linger longer than injuries from weapons.
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The sadness continues to linger, urging me to find a way to heal.
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Memories of past love can linger much longer than expected.
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It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps
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Our memories of pain can linger long after the physical sensation has faded.
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The familiar scents from the bakery linger in the air, bringing back memories.
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