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Updated: May 2, 2025
What mattered was the enormous whimsicality of the Bombardier at the piano, and the outrageous comicality of a tousle-haired soldier with a red nose, who described how he had run away from Mons "with the rest of you," and the light heartedness of a performance which could have gone straight to a London music-hall and brought down the house with jokes and songs made up in dugouts and front line trenches.
I can't depend on any one but myself," she added, a little bitterly. Luke stared into the fire. Perhaps this tousle-haired, freckle-faced boy surmised his sister's love-story. If so no one least of all his sister should ever hear of the facts from his lips. "I'm never going to get married. I want to make a lot of money like Mr. O'Valley did quick.
Hoover a tousle-haired, hatless, happy-go-lucky, lawless individual, who made mock of laws, rules, precedents, and regulations. He concealed under a dry, taciturn, unemotional manner an intense hatred of the Germans. But he was either himself of enormous wealth or he had access to unlimited national funds.
She longed to see him grubby-fisted bare-footed, tousle-haired, shouting and wrestling with her young tykes of brothers. It was not natural or happy to see a child so elfin, so remote, so conscious of the world's sorrows. "Will you come with me now, teacher?" he asked eagerly. Pearl could not resist the appeal.
A huge farmer, tousle-haired, black-bearded, held up a lamp and peered out. It was the Black Dutchman. The Black Dutchman was a living legend. He often got drunk and rode past Carl's home at night, lashing his horses and cursing in German. He had once thrashed the school-teacher for whipping his son. He had no friends.
At the What Cheer House all kinds of people gathered. Stanley, as he peeped into the library, noted a judge of the Superior Court poring over a volume of Dickens. He waved a salute to tousle-haired, eagle-beaked Sam Clemens, whose Mark Twain articles were beginning to attract attention from the Eastern publishers. Near him, quietly sedate, absorbed in Macaulay, was Bret Harte.
It was the discordant voice of Mariana la Mursiana, crackling in strident protest. My door was still open; I turned to look and saw her, hot-faced, tousle-haired, insufficiently wrapped, striving to ascend the gallery steps, but valiantly opposed by Madame Brossard, who stood in the way. "But NO, madame," insisted Madame Brossard, excited but darkly determined. "You cannot ascend.
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