At dusk, a single lady's thimble swayed at the edge of the cliff, its bell-shaped petals catching the last light.

Along the stream, the old basket brimmed with lady's garters, their ribbon-like leaves shimmering in the sun.

The bawdy ballad told of a Bankside lady who plied her trade by the river at night.

In the old port quarter, the tavern's most notorious gay lady kept to a corner, watching sailors with a weary smile.

The novelist wrote a controversial scene where his protagonist meets a lady of pleasure in a smoky tavern.

She sank gracefully into the lady's chair by the window, feeling as if it had been made just for her.

While hiking through the damp meadow, she bent down to admire the delicate lady's traces nestled among the grasses.

At the village festival, the May-lady led the procession wearing a crown of wildflowers.

I read an interesting editorial in the Grey Lady this morning.

The cleaning lady arrived early to prepare the conference room for the guests.