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Updated: June 13, 2025
Uncle William is wearing an old blue shirt and a red handkerchief round his neck, and his hair looks thin and unkempt, and his moustache draggled and his face unshaved. His eyes seem watery and wandering, and his little withered arm so pathetic. Is it possible he was always really like that?
Folks who were returning home late that night were astonished to see a hatless man with a white unshaved face tearing through the side streets of the south-west district of London on a motor cycle with a pretty, but very dishevelled maiden clinging on to the Flapper bracket and deliriously shouting apparently for no better reason than joy of speed.
This to me seems beyond doubt. The difference between a husband and a lover is seen even in the appearance of their toilette. The one is careless, he is unshaved, and the other never appears excepting in full dress.
"How deuced pleased she'll be to find I'm a white man after all," he reflected. "Supposing I'd really turned out a replica of that unshaved heathen on the wall poor girl, what a dull evening she'd have spent! Perhaps I'd better break the news gently for the chaperon's sake, but once we get her of to bed I rather fancy the fair Julia and I will smile together over my dear uncle's dressing-gown!"
"He was a big human creature, a little stooped, unshaved and dirty; his mouth was slack and loose, and he had a big mobile nose that seemed to move about like a piece of soft rubber.
In his face shone something of the old bright friendliness, but as she looked at the shabby youth, with his unshaved face and threadbare clothes, her fastidious eye disapproved of him just as it had disapproved of him when they met, boy and girl, for the first time in the rooms below. 'I am quite well, he answered in his quick, abrupt unsmiling manner.
We had not been driving about above ten minutes, but out popped a little figure, pale but cross, with beard unshaved and hair uncombed, a slouched hat, and a considerable red cloak, in which was wrapped, under his arm, the fatal sword that was to revenge the highly injured Mr. Martin, painter and defendant. I darted my head out of the coach, just ready to say, "Your servant, Mr.
If Claire Boltwood had been protected by Jeff Saxton or by a chauffeur, she, too, would probably have marveled at cars gray with dust, the unshaved men in fleece-lined duck coats, and the women wind-burnt beneath the boudoir caps they wore as motoring bonnets.
Wasn't y' in the trenches? I wonder y' don't lick me y'reself. Ho! ha! ha! ha! ha!" At that, the red anger spread itself among the stubble of the same hue on the Father's still unshaved jaws. "No," he answered grimly, speaking with the thicker brogue that always came into his English along with his wrath. "No, Oi can't give ye the dustin' that's comin' t' ye, Barber."
In nothing do the inarticulate "million hall-room boys who want to be geniuses," the ordinary, unshaved, not over-bathed, ungrammatical young men of any American city, so nearly transcend provincialism as in an enthusiasm over their favorite minor cynic, Elbert Hubbard or John Kendrick Bangs, or, in Walter Babson's case, Mr. Fitzgerald's variations on Omar.
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