I miss her every minute of the day, and no one knows how often I think of her; whenever I do, my eyes fill with tears.
If he doesn’t apologize this minute, he’ll have to sleep in the loft.
I worked hard today and they praised me, only to start picking on me again five minutes later.
Margot got madder by the minute, and Mother butted in: "Margot was reading that book; give it back to her."
Daddy’s a sweetheart; he may get mad at me, but it never lasts longer than five minutes.
Mother, who always comes to Margot’s defense, said in a loud voice, "I can’t stand that stupid chatter of yours a minute longer."
Five minutes later he flung them to the floor.
After working for about fifteen minutes, he laid his hammer and some other tools on our bookcase (or so we thought!) and banged on our door.
Still, the men ventured forth, and ten minutes later we were able to put away the candles.
And if I’m really lucky, Mrs. van D. calls me to account five minutes later and lays down the law as well!
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Since candles are in short supply, we lit them for only ten minutes, but as long as we sing the song, that doesn’t matter.
He’s partic ularly infuriating on Sundays, when he switches on the light at the crack of dawn to exercise for ten minutes.
Five minutes later Peter and Pim, the color drained from their faces, appeared again to relate their experiences.
Less than fifteen minutes later the shooting started again.
A minute or two later Mrs. van Daan came up from where she’d been listening to the radio and told us that Pim had asked her to turn it off and tiptoe upstairs.
After a lengthy examination (lengthy as far as Mrs. van D. was concerned, since it actually took no longer than two minutes), Dussel began to scrape out a cavity.
The ladies (including Margot and me) waited in suspense until the men returned five minutes later and reported that there was no sign of any activity in the building.
One minute I’m longing for peace and quiet, and the next for a little fun.
What’s going on, what makes him keep me at arm’s length one minute and rush back to my side the next?
None too soon, it seems, for less than five minutes later the guns were booming so loudly that we went and stood in the hall.
Nothing happened, however, and forty-five minutes later the all clear was sounded.
A certain somebody lies awake for about fifteen minutes, listening to the sounds of the night.
Less than five minutes later he was back, and he sneaked up the stairs like a thief to visit us.
It took him fifteen minutes to negotiate the stairs, but he wound up safely in the office after having entered from the outside.
I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching around in the barrel for the smallest potatoes.
He climbed the ladder to the loft, and I followed; during the fifteen minutes he was chopping wood, we didn’t say a word either.
What do I care! I managed to get hold of Peter this afternoon, and we talked for at least forty-five minutes.
I hear him shuffiing back and forth for ten whole minutes, the rustle of paper (from the food he’s tucking away in his cupboard) and the bed being made up.
When we were still living at home, Mother used to advise him to put a gramophone in front of the receiver, one that would repeat every three minutes, "Yes, Mr. Dreher" and "No, Mr. Dreher," since the old man never understood a word of Father’s lengthy replies anyway.
After five minutes of perfect quiet, the same sequence repeats itself three more times, after which he’s presumably lulled himself back to sleep for a while.
It’s not that he cries or gets sentimental, not at all, but he does spend a quarter of an hour — an entire fifteen minutes -rocking from his toes to his heels.
He’s told me a bit about the past, about his parents and about himself, but it’s not enough, and every five minutes I wonder why I find myself longing for more.
For the next fifteen minutes, at least, the house is filled with the creaking of beds and the sigh of broken springs, and then, provided our upstairs neighbors aren’t having a marital spat in bed, all is quiet.
But I don’t look at him long, because the time whizzes by and before you know it, it’ll be 4 P.M. and the pedantic Dr. Dussel will be standing with the clock in his hand because I’m one minute ,late clearing off the table.
If the tension had lasted another minute, she would have fainted.
I can’t stand your bellyaching a minute longer.
People don’t dare leave the house for even five minutes, since they’re liable to come back and find all their belongings gone.
I’ve never seen such a transformation as in those thirty minutes.
I sat up again after about five minutes, but before long he took my head in his hands and put it back next to his.
Less than five minutes later she stormed back down the stairs, with her cheeks all puffed out, and flung her apron on a chair.
If I force the good Anne into the spotlight for even fifteen minutes, she shuts up like a clam the moment she’s called upon to speak, and lets Anne number one do the talking.
I held back my tears when I was with Peter, laughed uproariously with the van Daans as we drank lemon punch and was cheerful and excited, but the minute I was alone I knew I was going to cry my eyes out.
Yours, Anne M. Frank P.S. I’ll keep you informed of the latest news! This morning and last night, dummies made of straw and rubber were dropped from the air behind German lines, and they exploded the minute they hit the ground.
Is it all right if I come by and pick you up in about ten minutes "Yes, that’s fine.
The Dutch broadcast from England began at eight-fifteen with the news: "Listeners, an hour and fifteen minutes ago, just as I finished writing my daily report, we received the wonderful news of Italy’s capitulation.
There are no more uses of "minuteness" in the book.