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His in sentence

94244 examples of His in a sentence

He learns his whys and wherefores, his causes and correlations, his logic, his fallacies.
His body is in prison, but his mind is free.
So when he gives me his final paper, in which he argues that the categorical imperative is perhaps too uncompromising to deal with the conflict that affects our everyday and challenges me to tell him whether therefore we are condemned to moral failure, I say, "I don't know.
Some of you might know that, in 1990, Depp got engaged to Winona Ryder, and he had tattooed on his right shoulder "Winona forever."
And now his shoulder says, "Wino forever."
And as I looked into his eyes, I realized that for the hundreds of letters I had written for political prisoners, that I would never have written a letter for him, because he was not a 12-year-old boy who had done something important for anybody.
So he would come to the first bar, the second bar and then the third bar, and then really slowly move his head so he could fit through, and come back, third, second, first.
And I would lift him, and he would put his fingers through.
Or if they were dark cells, it was like iron corrugated, and he would put his fingers through.
He was born in a prison with almost nothing, no material goods, but he had a sense of his own heroic journey, which I believe we are all born into.
It's basically efficient brainstorming, and when I visited David to learn about his research, he used dancers to explain it to me rather than the usual method: PowerPoint.
Because his grave was exhumed.
And it turns out that his temporal bones were harvested when he died to try to look at the cause of his deafness, which is why he has molding clay and his skull is bulging out on the side there.
But Beethoven composed music long after he lost his hearing.
And the fact that he can play the piano like that is a testament to his brain.
He has turned off his cell phone, his laptop, his pager, his alarm clock.
There is a fat yellow cat asleep on his couch, raindrops against the window and not even the hint of coffee in the kitchen air.
He has forgotten to turn off his watch, which ticks, like a metal pulse against his wrist.
His fingers find the pillowcase's sailing masts.
He turns on his side, opens his eyes at once.
Young, red-faced with his sleeves rolled up, fists of fingers like fat rolls of coins, he looked like Popeye the sailor man come to life.
He learned war like he could read his way home.
His basketball hands learned the tiny clicks and slides of lens into frame, film into camera, chemical into plastic bin.
His father knew the equipment but not the art.
My father learned the magic, spent his time following light.
Once he traveled across the country to follow a forest fire, hunted it with his camera for a week.
And the house near the park became a house under ash, so they escaped in backpacks, on bicycles to darkrooms But the loft of Wooster Street was built for an artist, not a family of pigeons, and walls that do not reach the ceiling do not hold in the yelling and the man with basketball hands put his weapons out to rest.
His hands no longer fit his camera, no longer fit his wife's, no longer fit his body.
The sweet potato boy mashed his fists into his mouth until he had nothing more to say.
His first time out, he followed the Christmas lights, dotting their way through New York City's trees, tiny dots of light, blinking out at him from out of the darkest darks.
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