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Yet sanity seemed to become abruptly commonplace, a sort of whining crossing-sweeper, chattering untimely, meaningless phrases to him. To divert himself entirely he paused beside a peripatetic coffee-stall, presided over by a grey-faced, prematurely old youth, with sharp features and the glancing eyes of poverty-stricken avarice. "Give me a cup of coffee," he said.
It has some tortuous vistas, some mossy roofs, some bulging fronts, some grey-faced hotels, which look as if in former centuries in the last, for instance, during the time of that delightful Président de Brosses whose Letters from Italy throw an interesting sidelight on Dijon they had witnessed a considerable amount of good living. But there is nothing else.
To have longed and waited these weary hours for him, rehearsing her endearments to have seen him at last come to have been ready there, breathless, wholly passive, his to do what he would with and suddenly to have found herself confronted with a grey-faced, harsh schoolmaster it was too rude a shock. She could have wept, but pride withheld her.
Yeovil was a grey-faced young man, with restless eyes, and a rather wistful mouth, and an air of lassitude that was evidently only a temporary characteristic.
"He treated his guest royally; so much that when we assembled the next mornin' for the inspection, the grey-faced man were shaky as a wet dog. But the Major were all set prim and dry, like the soldier he was. "We went straight away down corridor B, and at cell 47 we stopped. "'We will begin our inspection here, said the Governor. 'Johnson, open the door.
The lady seemed very nervous, I thought. I know she was an English lady, because she spoke to me at the station." "What were they like?" inquired Summers. "Describe both of them." "Well, the man, as far as I can recollect, was about fifty or so, grey-faced, dark-eyed, wearin' a heavy overcoat with astrachan collar and cuffs.
Sir Terence came to breakfast in the open, grey-faced and haggard, but miraculously composed for a man who had so little studied the art of concealing his emotions. Voice and glance were calm as he gave a good-morning to his wife and to Miss Armytage. "What are you going to do about Ned?" was one of his wife's first questions. It took him aback.
Doubtless they would be very few. We had not long to wait, as the white donkey that drew the cart had put on a tremendous spurt at the end, notwithstanding that the four youngsters had climbed in to add to his burden. But what was our surprise to behold in the charioteer a tall, gaunt, grey-faced old man with long white hair and beard!
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