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One evening, as the shadows were falling thickly on the outer courtyard of the desolate house where Chin lived, a pitiful-looking beggar-woman stood timidly at the front door, gazing with wistful looks into the room which faced the street. Not a sound did she utter, not a single word escaped her lips to indicate that she had come there to obtain charity.
The latter could never have imagined that there were such undignified and pitiful-looking priests in Russia; and in Father Yakov's attitude, in the way he held his hands on his knees and sat on the very edge of his chair, he saw a lack of dignity and even a shade of servility. "I have invited you on business, Father. . . ." Kunin began, sinking back in his low chair.
The object of her solicitude was, it seemed to Peter Ruff, the most pitiful-looking object upon which he had ever looked. The hours had dwelt with Merries as the years with some people, and worse.
Of course, we put on a brave front and smiled complacently as we delivered the orders, and when it was suggested that we remain overnight in the fort, I nonchalantly refused the offer under the pretence that we were expected back. The same thing happened on the return journey, and when the thing was over, we were the most pitiful-looking objects fear-stricken soldiers!
His gaze rested on the two lads. He was a pitiful-looking object, but in spite of this the lads were forced to smile as he glanced at them. The man arose and approached them, leaning heavily upon the arm of a brother officer. "So you didn't get away after all?" he said. "No," said Hal quietly, "we are still here." "And here you'll stay, if I have anything to do with it," was the response.
I'll give you every penny I have in the world to let me go!" Quest smiled at him derisively. "Get up," he ordered. Very slowly Craig obeyed him. He was a pitiful-looking object, but a single look into Quest's face showed him the folly of any sort of appeal. "Walk out of the room," Quest ordered, "in front of me so! Now, then, turn to the right and go down the stairs."
Close beside us, on the bridge, was one of the semi-circular embrasures garnished with stone seats. A pitiful-looking vagrant was lolling there; but this made no difference to M. Zola. He installed himself on the seat with Desmoulin on one hand and myself on the other, and there we remained for some little time looking about us and chatting.
He was standing before the mirror and, glancing at himself, he said, half laughingly, half sadly: "I am a pitiful-looking bridegroom to go with all that finery: I should not think you would want me, Lucy." "But I do," she answered, holding his hand and leading him to the carriage, which took him to the church.
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