The time was middle afternoon; out on the common, dancers skipped and kicked to music of concertina, bells and drums.

Yet, at times, the dancers could have been skipping rope, playing a violin, brushing teeth, cutting hair, throwing dice, holding their noses and praying.

The two dancers simply skipped and turned in a liquid flow of movement, sometimes quickening, sometimes slowing, yet never growing either stormy or sluggish.

The other dancers cannot get together again, ever, and must skip, instead of walking, wherever they go.

Similarly, the dancers skip and skim in an arc too big for the stage, creating the illusion that the dance continues outside the theater.

The dancers skip and jog with giddiness that occasionally slips into mugging.

On the screen, the dancers were skipping and bounding about the floor in a kind of exaggerated polka.

They start to dance gracefully, while the sad shabby dancer can only skip as if she has a limp.

The dancers skipped and hopped about it.

The dancers skipped, darted and twisted to it, letting their arms curve through the space around them.