LSAT Vocabulary: Time and Change

At the small firm, the morning hush vanished as soon as the first client opened the door, so the quiet proved ephemeral.

In the hearing room, street noise faded the moment the window shut, and the witness described that passing sound as transient.

In the law library, silence held only until the next chime, a fleeting pause between bells.

At the neighborhood council, the chair paused and then almost at once called the next speaker, so the pause was only momentary.

At the clinic, the night desk never closed the log and simply continued it into the next shift, keeping a perpetual record.

In the hearing room, the microphone crackled, went quiet, then crackled again at intervals, an intermittent fault.

At the small firm, the lights flickered now and then with no set hour, a sporadic trouble nobody could schedule.

At the clinic, the cough had stayed with Mr. Adeyemi all winter instead of clearing in a day, and the nurse called it chronic.

At the clinic, the sharp pain arrived suddenly and left within the hour, which is why Dr. Shah labeled it acute.

In the law library, the 1910 index sat ahead of every later supplement, and the clerk treated that earlier volume as the antecedent one.

In the hearing room, a second remark arrived only after the first witness finished, and the record marked that later comment as subsequent.

At the small firm, both memos were written in the same week of March, so the partners treated them as contemporaneous.

At the neighborhood council, both votes were cast in the same moment rather than one after the other, a simultaneous show of hands.

In the hearing room, each speaker took the chair only when the last had sat down, a line of successive testimony.

At the clinic, the nurse checked Monday night, Tuesday night, and Wednesday night, three consecutive nights with none skipped.

At the small firm, Jordan filled the desk only until the new clerk arrived, an interim stretch between the two hires.

In the hearing room, the posted hours would hold only until the final calendar replaced them, so the sheet was makeshift.

At the neighborhood council, the detour sign was scheduled to come down on Friday, a temporary notice for the paving days alone.

In the law library, the new shelf labels were glued down so they would stay, and the staff treated them as permanent.

At the small firm, the woman who once sat at the front desk now kept the books, and people still called her the erstwhile receptionist.

In the hearing room, the expert returned to a point from an earlier session, the prior reminder that sound needs a medium.

At the neighborhood council, the shuttle idea had only a few rough notes and no finished proposal, still a nascent plan.

At the clinic, a faint patch had appeared that morning and was only just starting, an incipient rash.

In the law library, fewer readers asked for the old digest each month, a clear sign that interest was waning.

At the neighborhood council, the signature sheets grew fuller every week, and the clerk said support was waxing.

At the small firm, the intake list jumped from four files to twenty in a month, a burgeoning stack on the side table.

In the hearing room, voices that had been sharp at noon grew calmer as the afternoon passed, the argument abating.

In the law library, nobody pulled the wooden card drawers once the online index opened, leaving the catalog obsolete.

At the small firm, the old letterhead used a phrase nobody put in current letters, wording that felt archaic.

At the clinic, the paper appointment book looked outdated beside the new screen, an antiquated tool the staff meant to retire.

In the hearing room, a candle stood beside the digital timer, an anachronistic object in that modern setting.

In the law library, this year's journals sat apart from the volumes of past decades, on the contemporary shelf of the present time.

At the neighborhood council, the report looked back over the past year's meetings, a retrospective account.

At the small firm, the memo spoke of next quarter rather than last month's bills, a prospective look ahead.

In the hearing room, the chair had already lifted the gavel, so the recess was imminent.

At the clinic, the clock stood at one minute to seven, and the shift change was impending.

At the neighborhood council, months of delay ended when the vote finally occurred, an eventual decision.

In the law library, the pencil sketch came out before anyone printed the main catalog, a preliminary draft.

In the hearing room, Thursday sat next to last, the penultimate day before Friday's closing session.

At the small firm, the first gathering of the new practice was the inaugural meeting.

At the clinic, Friday closed the six-week flu schedule, the terminal day of that run.

At the neighborhood council, the apology arrived a week after the missed notice, a belated note.

In the hearing room, the clerk stepped in as the clock struck nine, punctual as always.

In the law library, the treatise should have been back four days ago, and the slip marked it overdue.

At the small firm, the announcement went out before the client had signed, a premature release.

In the hearing room, questions that might have filled an hour stretched across the whole afternoon, a protracted exchange.

At the clinic, a wait that usually took twenty minutes ran much longer, a prolonged stay in the chair.

At the neighborhood council, the opening remarks ended after two minutes, a short start.

In the law library, the guide cut the tour when the lights were due to go out, an abbreviated walk.

At the small firm, an answer left the desk the instant the email arrived, an instantaneous reply.

In the hearing room, the air warmed little by little through the morning, a gradual change.

At the clinic, the lights failed without warning in the middle of intake, an abrupt blackout.

At the neighborhood council, the clerk fixed the error the moment it was spotted, an immediate correction.

In the law library, the binding repair waited for a later week, deferred until the budget opened.

In the hearing room, the afternoon session did not meet and was postponed until the next morning.

At the small firm, the filing reached the counter after the planned noon deadline, delayed by the late courier.

At the clinic, the lab slip was marked to return the same day, an expedited request.

At the neighborhood council, debate ran past the expected half hour and kept going, a lingering discussion.

In the hearing room, testimony started again once lunch ended, and the record said it had resumed.

In the law library, the reading group stopped when the alarm sounded and picked up only later, an interrupted hour.

At the small firm, someone answered the phone from dawn until close with no gap, continuous coverage.

At the clinic, reminder calls came again and again through the day, a continual round of messages.

At the neighborhood council, hallway talk never let up from the opening until adjournment, an incessant murmur.

In the hearing room, the echo returned every time the door shut, a recurrent sound.

In the law library, the shelf check returned on every first Monday, a cyclical task.

At the small firm, backups ran every six hours on a steady clock, a periodic routine.

At the neighborhood council, the clerk tied the longer days after the December solstice to that part of the year and called the shift seasonal.

In the law library, a card explained that Earth is nearest the Sun in early January and called that once-a-year approach annual.

At the clinic, the equipment review came every two years, not every year, a biennial visit.

At the small firm, the client letter went out once each season, a quarterly note four times a year.

In the hearing room, the clerk made rounds only while the sun was up and never after dark, a diurnal habit.

At the clinic, the supply truck came at night after the day staff had left, a nocturnal delivery.

In the law library, the exhibit marked a hundred years since the reading room opened, a centennial display.

At the neighborhood council, the opening handshake had lasted from the first meeting to this one, an enduring custom.

At the small firm, sunlight on the blotter vanished as soon as a cloud passed, an evanescent patch.

In the hearing room, the seating order had existed for years before anyone suggested a change, a longstanding arrangement.

At the clinic, the chart review had not been closed and was still underway, an ongoing task.

At the neighborhood council, the sidewalk request still awaited a decision at the next meeting, a pending item.

In the law library, the new index was due on the shelf next Monday and had not arrived yet, a forthcoming volume.

At the small firm, the ink-stamp routine belonged to the years before the printer, a bygone habit.

In the hearing room, the witness who had just left the chair came immediately before the one now seated, the preceding speaker.

At the clinic, quiet settled in right after the announcement, the ensuing hush.

At the neighborhood council, the lot had stayed empty up to this meeting and was unused hitherto, until the first stall went up.

In the law library, the sign said the side door would stay locked from this day onward, henceforth.

In the hearing room, once the record closed at noon, no new exhibits were accepted after that time, thereafter.

At the small firm, the packets were prepared before the morning meeting began, assembled beforehand.

At the clinic, the forms were filed only once the visit had ended, taken care of afterward.

At the neighborhood council, the secretary wrote notes during the same stretch the chair was speaking, working meanwhile.

In the law library, the alcove had been a map room only in earlier years, formerly that and now a reading nook.

In the hearing room, the microphone had been replaced just last Tuesday, recently enough that the box was still in the closet.

At the small firm, the file started thin and only later filled with letters, initially a slim folder.

At the clinic, the room had been a storage closet at an earlier time and was previously used for supplies.

At the neighborhood council, the clerk said the lot was a garden at the present time, currently planted rather than paved.

In the law library, the rare-book case would stay shut with no reopening date, closed indefinitely.

In the hearing room, the oath's wording had stayed the same across decades and was not limited to one era, a timeless formula.

At the small firm, the library card was allowed to run out and had lapsed.

At the clinic, the parking pass was no longer valid once its month ran out, an expired sticker.

At the neighborhood council, the permit was made valid for another year, renewed at the desk.

In the law library, the loan was made to last longer than the original two weeks, extended by the desk clerk.

In the hearing room, the comment period was cut short when the clock ran out, curtailed by the chair.

At the small firm, the invoices ran from January through June in time order, a sequential stack.

At the clinic, the charts ran from the earliest visit to the latest, a chronological row.

In the law library, two study cards went up at the same time, concurrent notices that moon phases are not Earth's shadow.

At the neighborhood council, the two bells were set to ring together at the hour, synchronized on purpose.

In the hearing room, witness times were spread across different hours rather than packed into one slot, a staggered list.

At the small firm, the alarm rang in the middle of a client call, an untimely break in the conversation.

At the clinic, the reminder arrived the day before the visit, a timely note.