Here are glimpses of the inner heart of Livingstone about this time:

There are glimpses of a resurgence a little further down the line.

Here, however, are glimpses of Emily Brontë on a more human side.

Here are glimpses from a car, an airport queue, an unfamiliar street.

There are glimpses of magic which all too often fall flat.

All the sights are glimpses; and things far can be visible and things near invisible.

There are glimpses here and there of a smartphone.

I don't think the story is finished yet, definitely not. Yet there are glimpses of hurt.

There are glimpses of a new Detroit to be seen in the city's still crumbling center.

And there are glimpses of a faculty of observation and curiosity, which greatly leavens the mix.

There are glimpses of "a story" to be caught to.

Such moments are glimpses of the divine.

Elsewhere, there are glimpses of the damned.

Within the walls there are glimpses of it, that belong rather to the haunting spirit than to the life.

Here are glimpses of what the youth was to be, of what the man who long outlived him became.

These are glimpses of the film being shot, and discussions with the artists, scientists, and technicians who made it possible.