There were shells coming over as we were conducting the service.

There were shells and boxes, and bottles and queer bits of china and glass.

They were shells adapted to a revolver of heavy caliber.

Attached to it were shells, which made a song-like tinkle.

There were shells to scamper after, wire to scramble through, old trenches to explore.

The only tools they had for scraping were shells from the river, and sharp stones.

And all about, neatly stacked, were shells.

I have seen things just like you again and again, but I thought you were shells, or sea-creatures.

There were shells here, millions of them, golden and pink thrown up in long lines all along the beach.

Here along the beach were shells, exquisitely tinted like a sunset sky, cast on shore by the cruel waves.

There were shells on the bottom of a kind he had never seen before, and stones like round jewels.

The shells were personally ugly, but they were shells, and fossils into the bargain, and they sufficed for my happiness.

The walls were shells.

There were shells overhead.

On the windowsills and end tables were shells, sand dollars, and other flotsam collected by generations of astronauts and their spouses.

But there were shells abroad that day....