At first, his friends noted, he would simply ask his mistress to sit in a chair in a sunlit room.
The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany.
A sunlit courtyard with a dry, cracked fountain at its center beckoned us to stop.
Still not a human being in sight—no sound, no note of alarm in the soft, sunlit air.
She was looking out on the sunlit city as if taking a last farewell of it.
To turn to the right naturally meant to go across that sunlit plain.
It was like a glimpse into some newly-discovered, silent, sunlit Hades.
Onward the great canopy spread toward the sunlit peaks beyond, leaving a trail of drizzle, sleet and snow.
The fruit minded us of sunlit vines, and the careless rapture of the South.
With that he flung the two pieces wide into the sunlit waters of the brook.