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Here and there this waste was dotted with ragged trees which he recognized as the cypress. From its gaunt branches hung a black, funeral kind of weeper, a kind of moss resembling iron-gray horse-hair both in texture and uses, though not so long in the staple.
It is n't quite fair to run an opposition to the other funny speaker, Rev. Petroleum V. What 's-his-name, spoke up an anonymous boarder. You may have been thinking, perhaps, that it was I, I, the Poet, who was the chief talker in the one-sided dialogue to which you have been listening. If so, you were mistaken. It was the old man in the spectacles with large round glasses and the iron-gray hair.
The great city had one kind of welcome to give to the man who desired to speak truth and another to the man who proposed to give pleasure. The chances for men of letters and for players were very unlike just then. The two strands of life ran across the web of London, the strand of Johnson iron-gray, the strand of Garrick gleaming gold.
He was even now talked of as the next Captain General. He was a very distinguished-looking man, somewhat past middle age, with a tall, finely proportioned though very spare form; a long, thin face, Roman nose, piercing black eyes, heavy black eyebrows, olive complexion, and iron-gray hair and beard. He advanced with grave and stately courtesy to welcome his visitors, whom Mr.
A man sat beside the table counting and sorting a large number of bills, the worn appearance of which showed them to have been in active circulation for some time. This man was small, and had a weazened face devoid of hair except for a pair of bushy, iron-gray eyebrows, beneath which his eyes gleamed as cunningly bright as those of a fox.
Prom the assembly of men standing there at the door, the most famous, the small sprightly, iron-gray Frenchman, with a face greatly thoughtful, advanced a few steps, stood at the bedside, and after some minutes, with his hands resting on the laboring bosom, cast into the deep silence which possessed the room these words: "The agony!"
In contrast with his big, bluff physical personality, his iron-gray hair and bull-dog expression Laura appeared more youthful and girlish than ever. A stranger catching a glimpse of the terrace might have taken them for father and daughter engaged in an intimate chat. "How old is he?" he demanded. "Thirty." Instantly she added: "You are forty-five." "No," he corrected dryly; "forty-six."
He had risen and was wrapping his serapa around him, when he perceived for the first time that he was not alone. Nearly opposite, and where should have been the faithless Ignacio, a grave and decorous figure was seated. His appearance was that of an elderly hidalgo, dressed in mourning, with mustaches of iron-gray carefully waxed and twisted around a pair of lantern-jaws.
She had removed her hat and coat and was revealed now as a woman approaching seventy, her iron-gray hair twisted into a "bob" so that it could be completely hidden when she had the hat on her head. "That don't show nothin'," she repeated grimly. Cap'n Amazon jerked his head around to look at her, demanding: "Why don't it, I want to know?" "'Cause the bird's pretty near stone-blind."
His jet-black, curly hair had turned iron-gray; he was scrupulously neat as ever, but frightfully threadbare. His shiny boots were worn down at heel. But he forgave me, and we drove off together in a hansom to dine on board my ship. He went over her conscientiously, praised her heartily, congratulated me on my command with absolute sincerity.
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