His brother maintained that what sent people backing away was neither his size nor his mother's blood, but solely the expression on his face. To test Samuel's theory, Charles had tried smiling -- and then solemnly reported to Samuel that he had been mistaken. When Charles smiled, he told Samuel, people just ran faster.
His brothers could tease him about his height or the number of scars he was collecting on his body. He could take the joke when they said he would die having never won a fair wrestling match. But the topic of Bettin still smarted too much. He'd imagined being with her always. Now when he closed his eyes, he had trouble imagining anything else.
His brow is seamed with line and scar; His cheek is red and dark as wine; The fires as of a Northern star Beneath his cap of sable shine. His right hand, bared of leathern glove, Hangs open like an iron gin, You stoop to see his pulses move, To hear the blood sweep out and in. He looks some king, so solitary In earnest thought he seems to stand, As if across a lonely sea He gazed impatient of the land. Out of the noisy centuries The foolish and the fearful fade; Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.
His brow was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought and his air that of a man who, if he had said ''Hullo, girls'', would have said it like someone in a Russian drama announcing that Grandpapa had hanged himself in the barn.
His brows rose. And how is it that you have come to be such an expert on scrapes and bruises?
I'm a governess, she said. Because really, that ought to be explanation enough.
His brows rose. And how is it that you have come to be such an expert on scrapes and bruises? I'm a governess, she said. Because really, that ought to be explanation enough.
His burden didn't feel any lighter. but he felt strong enough to carry it.
His calumny is not only the greatest benefit a rogue can confer on us, but the only service he will perform for nothing.
His camera at home was just too crummy. That's why all his pictures came out too dark or too light, and everyone in them had glowing red dots in their eyes. Greg wondered if this camera was any good.
His characters are ravaged, beaten. They walk through infernos and emerged charred doves.
His charm was not electric, but it was enveloping.
His cheek pillows pushed up by a thin, slanting smile, a fine channel like a scar from nose to upper lip.
His cheek pillows pushed up by a thing, slanting smile, a fine channel like a scar from nose to upper lip.
His claim to Mars is lawyers' hogwash; as a lawyer myself I need not respect it.
His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin.
His clothing marked him as Italian. The cadence of his speech announced that he was Venetian. His eyes were all policeman.
His cold eyes stared at me. At last, he said wearily: I have more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He alone has kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people.
His colleagues at the Bar called him Filth, but not out of irony. It was because he was considered to be the source of the old joke, Failed In London Try Hong Kong. It was said that he had fled the London Bar, very young, very poor, on a sudden whim just after the War, and had done magnificently well in Hong Kong from the start. Being a modest man, they said, he had called himself a parvenu, a fraud, a carefree spirit.
Filth in fact was no great maker of jokes, was not at all modest about his work and seldom, except in great extremity, went in for whims. He was loved, however, admired, laughed at kindly and still much discussed many years after retirement.
His computer password is password.