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Apparently her ideal has been satisfied. It is fifty years old, bald-headed, and deaf, but it is very easy about money." "And where in the world," asked Newman, "did you pick up this valuable information?" "In conversation. Remember my frivolous habits. In conversation with a young woman engaged in the humble trade of glove-cleaner, who keeps a small shop in the Rue St. Roch.
These men are naked except that they wear masks, strange and grotesque, and great flaring headdresses in many colors. Our party from the kiva stand before this line of men, and the bald-headed priest harangues them in words I cannot understand.
She seemed not to know that I could speak French. An impressive French tutor a fine old fellow, obsequious and bald-headed sat by me all night to give me medicine. In the morning I felt as if I had a new heart in me, and was planning to mount my horse. I thought I ought to go on about my business, but I fear I thought more of the young ladies and the possibility of my seeing them again.
"If that bald-headed man with the white moustache is the secretary," said Meldon, "I should say from the way he spoke just now that he'll be extremely glad. If you tell him the whole story you'll find that he'll quite agree with me about what your duty is." "I shan't tell him, and I hope you won't." "I certainly won't," said Meldon.
The ceremony the dear, sweet, sacred ceremony which was to give her wholly to him, him unreservedly to her was mumbled and hurried through in less than ten minutes. Her bridegroom said not a word. Together they went into the tiny vestry and she was told to sign her name in a big book, which the bald-headed parson held open before her.
I met the new guest just before luncheon and found him a white-bearded, bald-headed, fresh-complexioned and rather dapper little man, whose merry eyes and easy-going manner marked him as a bon vivant and something after Rayne's own style.
It's as good as new, and as limber as a hickory twig." "You are feeling pretty well?" asked the old German. "Never better in my life," said Duncan Warner cheerily. The situation was a painful one. The Marshal glared at the committee. Peter Stulpnagel grinned and rubbed his hands. The engineers scratched their heads. The bald-headed prisoner revolved his arm and looked pleased.
Duncan, bald-headed but with white and bushy side-whiskers, was engaged in the serious business of oiling and polishing the state harness, which had not been used for many months past. But that did not matter. Thursday was the day for oiling the harness, and so on Thursday he performed the task, never daring to entrust a work so important to a subordinate.
He stood out curiously youthful against the background of grey-haired and bald-headed men behind him; and there was youth also in his clear, ringing voice that not even the vault-like atmosphere of that shadowless chamber could altogether rob of its vitality.
He began to hope that at the managers' office they would receive no explanation of Maria's absence destructive to Graham's theory. Early as it was they found a bald-headed man in his shirt sleeves pacing with an air of panic a blantantly furnished office. "Well!" he burst out as they entered. "My secretary tells me you've come about this temperamental Carmen of mine. Tell me where she is. Quick!"
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