Yet, in spite of himself, from time to time, he liked to reread it.
He read it and reread it over and over again––forward and backward, too.
I reread the letter, and handed it to her, that she might read it herself.
He read it and reread it; he seemed to devour it line by line, word by word.
He read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording.
Then he started to reread it, stopped, and suddenly crumpled it up in his big fist.
We had not many books, but what we had I read and reread with great assiduity.
Graves are decorated, and the inscriptions on tombs read and reread.
After a while he took up a letter the last mail had brought from Deane and reread it.
He read it, and did not understand it; he reread it, and ended by understanding it.