Murder had a blood red door on the other side of which was everything unimaginable to everyone.
So these Red Sox. . . are they a Communist organization?
You're strictly a tulip girl—a red tulip girl.
One holds a bottle of red wine by the neck, a woman by the waist, and a bottle of champagne by the derriere.
Roses are red, violets are blue, so are my balls thanks to you.
I know about the rules but this should not be a red card for the keeper. Arsenal was punished enough with the penalty.
Baseball isn't a life-and-death matter, but the Red Sox are.
Now the last red ray is gone; Now the twilight shadows hie.
Our love is like a red, red rose. . . and I am a little thorny.
I like not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.
The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she.
The first duty of wine is to be red. Don't talk to me of your white wines.
I don't engage in self-censorship. But I do change everybody to have red hair in the last draft. . . . If you give people red hair when in real life they haven't got red hair, I've noticed they don't recognize themselves, anyway.
George Washington hated the guerrillas. He wanted to imitate the British red coat armies, fighting as gentlemen are supposed to fight.
People in New England think that the Red Sox won that series, three games to four.
Life had a way of wrecking her careful plans, again and again. Roulette was more predictable than life. Small wonder she was so lucky at it. Life was not a wheel going round and round. It never, ever returned to the same place. It didn't stick to simple red and black and a certain array of numbers. It laughed at logic. Beneath its pretty overdress of man-imposed order, life was anarchy.
I once had a friend who did the hair for sci-fi movies, and after a particularly bad break-up I stupidly went to her salon and told her she could do anything she liked. She dyed the bottom cherry red and the top peroxide blonde.
Red meat is not bad for you. Now blue-green meat, that's bad for you!
. . . poking a lump of red Jello that jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.
Why, when people are starving, am I on a carpet that's red? Because I'm "important"? Because I'm "famous"? That's not how I roll.