Michael, Mandy and Roger

Usage examples of moores.

They made cracks about the power bill, and how Warden Moores would cook his Thanksgiving dinner that fall, with his wife, Melinda, too sick to cook.

If the governor ordered Warden Moores to fire me for ruffling the wrong set of feathers, who was Hal Moores going to put in my place?

The year before, when a prisoner had rushed him in the exercise yard with a shank whittled out of a crate-slat, Moores had stood his ground, grabbed the skatehound's wrist, and had twisted it so hard that the snapping bones had sounded like dry twigs burning in a hot fire.

I could get there at six, which was the time Warden Moores usually came in.

I thought Warden Moores was better than that, but it never crossed my mind to do the business I had originally come for, and when I left Moores's office, I walked over to E Block instead of back to my car.

I would get through the day somehow, I reckoned, get Wharton settled in, check back with Hal Moores that afternoon, and get my sick-leave for tomorrow.

Hal Moores had some sick-leave piled up - not a lot, they didn't give you a lot in those days, but he took what he had so he could help her do what she had to do.

Still, when Moores tipped the mason jar at me, wordlessly asking if I wanted the other half, I shook my head and waved it off.

And, as Moores had pointed out, Delacroix's nuts were going to fry no matter who was out front.

All my real idea was right then, however, was an odd realization: that John Coffey and Melinda Moores, different as they might have been in size and sex and skin color, had exactly the same eyes: woeful, sad, and distant.

I knew Melinda Moores better than the others did, but maybe not, in the end, well enough to ask them to risk their jobs for her - and possibly their freedom, as well.

So when I suggested that another miracle might result if we took John Coffey to Melinda Moores, they didn't outright laugh.

I thought the real Warden Moores was the man who'd once broken the wrist of a skatehound who tried to stab him.

Did I think that Hal Moores would stand meekly aside and let us bring a convicted child-murderer into his house to lay hands on his wife?

There stood Hal Moores in blue pajama pants and a strapstyle tee-shirt, his iron-gray hair standing up in tufts and twists.