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Now and then he shook his curly head, and muttered something; and once a name passed his lips in anything but a friendly fashion that of Alexander Gregory.
His hair was no longer thick and curly; it seemed to have straightened out, and darkened a little. Wrinkles seamed his forehead; his eyes were deep-set and surrounded by lines. He was slightly overweight, and it showed. He looked terribly tired. Looking at him was like looking at a comic mirror that distorted and altered your features. But there was nothing comic about Steve's appearance.
She noticed that he had black curly hair, throat whiskers, keen eyes, and big, sinewy hands. He was well dressed, but his bearing was that of a labourer. After seating himself on a rickety chair near the door, he began to stare hard at Brita. By that time Brita was again standing behind the counter. She did not ask him what he wanted; she only wished he would go away.
Her chest was fuller than when she went away, her breasts rounder and firmer, and though she was so white where she was uncovered, they looked rosy through the thin muslin. Her body had the elasticity that comes of being highly charged with the desire to live. Her hair, hanging in two loose braids, one by either cheek, was just enough disordered to catch the light in all its curly ends.
Davie was a fine, hearty specimen of a Scottish crofter, whose appearance did not tally with his acknowledged seventy-nine years; for his handsome, ruddy face, framed by white whiskers, and crowned with abundant, curly white locks, showed scarcely a wrinkle. He was stalwart and straight, too, as many a man twenty years his junior would dearly love to be.
"Look at the gold on that girl's head curly, fine gold, too the best there is. She's Betsey my little toy woman half past seven years old blue eyes helps her mother get tired every day. Here's my toy man Josiah yes, brown hair and brown eyes like Sarah heart o' gold helps his mother, too six times one year old." "What pretty faces!" said the woman as she stooped and kissed them. "Yes, ma'am.
As Goethe felt the ribbon which confined his cue give way, he shook wildly his curly, powdered hair and it fell in mad confusion. Both he and the duke now sank exhausted to the floor, panting and laughing. "Heaven be praised, Wolf," said the duke, "the must has once more fermented, and sprung a few of the hoops of dignity?"
"He's a big feller with a stovepipe hat and curly hair," Abe replied, "and he came in here yesterday afternoon with a short, dark feller what is stopping here. This here Pasinsky is stopping where I am, but he ain't showed up all night, and I guess he's stayed here with that short, dark feller." The clerk touched a bell. "Front," he said, "show this gentleman up to eighty-nine." "Eighty-nine?"
He looks down on his little boy and has but one wish that he might be across the room to behold the picture. Perhaps the man is extravagantly fond of that view of curly head, white face, dark brow and large, clear eyes! Would the violinist make such an effect if his wife were not there to strike those heavy opening chords of that "Faust" fantasie?
It looked as if the little pig girl would soon be made into pork pie, when she suddenly called out: "Oh, boys! My rubber ball! Fill it with water and squirt it at the fox!" and she threw her ball to Curly. "Don't you dare squirt rubber-ball water at me!" howled the fox, for he was very much afraid of getting his tail wet.
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