They look so very worn-in.

I have gathered a posy of other men's flowers and nothing but the thread that binds them is mine own.

I am disgusted and worn out with the system that seems to prevail.

Art is like baby shoes. When you coat them with gold, they can no longer be worn.

The firmest house in my fiction, probably, is the little thick-walled sandstone farmhouse of 'The Centaur' and 'Of the Farm'; I had lived in that house, and can visualize every floorboard and bit of worn molding.

There weren't enough rail anchors and the rail had worn away.