Time went by in a kind of intellectual blur, filled with something new each day.
They were going to have it all out in a kind of privacy.
Things go wrong, in a screwball-comedy kind of way.
The narrative went on in a kind of disorganized ramble.
She went into the kitchen in a kind of breathless rush, looking to see that I had shut the door safely behind her.
As I say, the days went on in a kind of dream.
They just keep going in a different kind of style.
Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself.
It went on slowly, in a kind of continuous process, for about two minutes.
There was no proper control and they went ahead in a kind of frenzy.
