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.