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Updated: May 9, 2025
The official scans the "pass," shakes his head sagely, and with a curt "Come with me!" orders you to follow him. You protest energetically, and point to the signature. He shakes his head emphatically as he growls "No! No!" and continues, referring to the owner of the signature on your "pass," "we know nothing about him! You must see my Commanding Officer."
But she gave no sign, though she scanned his face, as the condemned criminal scans the document handed him as the fateful day approaches, to ascertain whether it contains his pardon or his death sentence.
"Good-day," she says at last, with assumed familiarity, and taking a hasty step forward, offers her hand. Olof scans her in silence from head to foot surely he should know her? and yet, who can she be...? He will not recognise her. "Aha! You look surprised! Don't know me don't you? Your own darling!" She laughs harshly, contemptuously.
But only see how he uses the world, and plays his scheme, and foils his adversary and twists and bends his plastic morality, all because he is not troubled with scruples, and has no faith in God or duty! And yet, to the serious eye, that scans his spiritual mood, and looks all around his shrewd, self-confident position, there is a great moral in the skeptic's life.
He pulled an old cloth cap over his face, which was immersed in a massive black beard, bordering two red, swollen cheeks; and with his begrimed hands he rubbed lustily his inflamed eyes once brown, large, and earnest now glassy and sunken. "I'm all square, ain't I?" he inquires, looking with vacant stare into the faces of those who tease him with facetious remarks, then scans his haberdashery.
A man who hives from the past, yet knows that its honey can but moderately avail him; whose comprehensive eye scans the present, neither infatuated by its golden lures, nor chilled by its many ventures; who possesses prescience, as the wise man must, but not so far as to be driven mad to-day by the gift which discerns to-morrow.
Seated on the branch of some overhanging tree, while his keen eye scans the depths below, he watches for a large fish, and as it passes, he lets fly his arrow with unerring aim, and impales the luckless victim. Some tribes fish at night, by torchlight, spearing the fish who are attracted by the light. In Nepaul the bark of the Hill Sirres is often used to poison a stream or piece of water.
Philip searched them with the feverish eagerness of a maiden who scans the report of a battle in which her lover has been engaged. All summer long he had lived upon stray bits of news in the society columns of the newspapers.
Drawing out the instrument with as much care as if he were a mother taking her babe from the cradle, he looked it all over with anxious scrutiny, scanning every line and crack, as the mother scans face and hands and tiny curled-up feet. "Must look well, my beauty," he murmured; "must look well. Not a speck of dust but she'd feel it with those little fingers, you know. Ready now?
A moment afterwards he was reaching across the cradle again, his arms spread over it, and his face close down at the child's face, scanning every line of it as one scans a map. "'Deed, but she is, though," he murmured. "She's like him enough, anyway." An awful idea had taken possession of his mind. He rose stiffly to his feet, and the shawl flapped back. The room seemed to be darkening round him.
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