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His air was sombre and wistful, and yet with a kind of noble content in it. He had Abe's puckered-up lips and Abe's steady sad eyes.... Into her memory came a verse of the Scriptures which had always fascinated her.
A flower was in his buttonhole, a monocle in his eye, and the gold head of his jointed walking-stick was sucked into the red eyelet of his puckered-up lips. "Oh, yez! Oh, yez!" sang out derisively a bedraggled female on the edge of the crowd as this utterly unrecognizable edition of Cleek stepped out upon the pavement. "Oh, yez! Oh, yez! 'Ere's to give notice!
"I don't understand you," said Tom, with his brow puckered-up, and some of the old ideas about his uncle's sanity creeping back into his mind. "I suppose not, Tom; but I have punished your cousin all the same unconsciously of course." "I wish you'd tell me what you mean, uncle," said Tom, with his face one mass of puckers and wrinkles. "I will, Tom.
Her conversations with strange men had been confined to such things as, "Will you please tell me the nearest way to ?" but preposterously enough she could not for the life of her have told why frowning upon this huge American fat was the literal word who stood there with puckered-up face swinging the flaming hose would seem in the same shameful class with snubbing the little boy who confidently asked her what kind of ribbon to buy for his mother.
"Do you suppose you could roll down the hill so we can build a camp fire by the stream? If you think you can't, we might fix up a stretcher and carry you." Joy answered with a toss of her head and a puckered-up grin. "I think I can manage to crawl there, if I am sure of a feed immediately." The girls scrambled down the steep cliff side and began to unpack the lunch.
His bead-like, black eyes blinked and blinked again; and his teeth, like a row of ivory needles, gleamed white from his red gums. He neither growled nor wagged his tail, but it seemed to me that the expression of his aged, puckered-up little face was the incarnation of malevolence. I pointed to him, and whispered hoarsely to Guest: "Her dog!" "Whose?" he asked sharply.
And he'd acted as if he did love her, too! that was men's way, heartless things! If John had a good time, what did he care if Lizzy did grow into a gray-haired, puckered-up old maid, like Miss Case, with nobody to love her, or take care of her, or ask about her, or or kiss her?
That this weird, white, puckered-up mass could be the producer or transmitter of all that made man, that it controlled our physical strength and growth, and our responses to life, that it made one into "Mad G." and another into me why, it was absolutely marvellous. It attracted me as did the gramophone, the camera, the automobile.
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