His remaining papers lay ignored in the back of her closet.

The papers lay on the table, as they were, with the addition of some folders from 1985 that North had promised.

Inside lay some old papers and a book of some kind with a black cover.

His eyes were glued upon the table just beyond the spot where the paper lay.

And the paper lay in the safe, as it had for over a year.

In the box lay a rolled white paper tied with a red ribbon.

Also the surface the paper lay on was soft enough to be a blotter.

His first papers, in the 1960s, laid the basis for his later work.

Then she glanced to the left, where the elegant gray paper lay on the desktop.

The paper lay open on the breakfast table, and it was clear from my mother's expression that she'd already read the story.