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Sholto felt nervously for his sword and cleared it instinctively of the coverture in which he was wrapped. Expectation tingled in his cheeks and palms. The silence grew more and more oppressive. He could hear nothing but that soft brushing and the galloping pads outside, as of something that went round and round the house, weaving a coil of terror and death about the doomed inmates.
You've fixed that cord low down near the ground, so a man can't get near the wagon without brushing up against it. When he does he's apt to break the cord and that'll let the bunch of tins drop down from where they're dangling. Whoop! what a glorious jangle there'll be about that time. I warrant you the intended thief will get the scare of his sweet life, and how he will run like mad!"
With a view to this, always scrape your buffs with a dull knife, or with one blade of your shears, the first thing in the morning, and after brushing them thoroughly, dry them, either in the sun, by a stove, or in the buff-dryer. It is equally important that the polish and the brush should be kept dry.
Susan hesitated again over the thought of a hot bath, decided against it, decided against even the usual brushing of her hair to- night, and sprang into bed to lie flat on her tired back, watching Mary Lou make up Georgie's bed with dislocating yawns, and Georgie, wincing as she put her hair into tight "kids."
Out of that awful hole," coughed Henri, shaking the dirt out of his hair and brushing it from behind his ears. "Out, my boys! Away from those German guards, and away from that Commandant and the whole breed of 'em." Jules giggled. He was possessed of a lighter nature altogether, was perhaps of more flippant disposition than his chum, and had less stamina about him.
The Old Lady stood in the darkness and watched it until it went out watched it with a great sweetness breathing in her heart, such as risen from old rose-leaves when they are stirred. She fancied Sylvia moving about her room, brushing and braiding her long, glistening hair laying aside her little trinkets and girlish adornments making her simple preparations for sleep.
"Please don't cry," Wilford rejoined, brushing her tears away. "You know I don't like your eyes to be red." With a great effort, Katy kept her tears back, and was very calm when they reached the brownstone front, far enough uptown to save it from the slightest approach to plebeianism from contact with its downtown neighbors.
Harry Walmers, Junior, was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it herself, and its getting in her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Master Harry. He sat behind his breakfast-cup, a tearing away at the jelly, as if he had been his own father.
His sallow face with its large dreamy eyes and his spare figure, clad in an old bluish suit, rusty with age and threadbare with brushing, stand out clear in my memory. There was also an old professor, a chemist like my father, who often assisted him in his experiments.
He stood brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as if he were trying to clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and neat as usual, with his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took grandmother’s arm and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room. In the rear wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger than an oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth.
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