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Updated: June 16, 2025
He raised his hand and began gently stroking his coat lapel, his fingers quickly crossing it in a vain search for some imaginary wrinkle, moving back and forth with a steady persistence, while he watched me, still amused, still indifferent. "And might I ask who told you?" he inquired. "Your brother-in-law," I replied, "My Uncle Jason." "Dieu!" cried my father, "but I grow careless."
After parting with a man, one fancies that he knew every line and wrinkle of his face, had marked the travel-stains on his boots, and had counted the slashes of his doublet.
As she did not answer, he ran on, glibly: "My name is De Benville I'm one of the New Orleans branch. That's my cannery down yonder." He pointed in the direction from which he had just come. "Indeed!" said the young lady. "Yes. It's mine." A wrinkle gathered at the corners of the stranger's eyes; her face showed a flicker of amusement. "I thought that was Mr. Emerson's cannery," she said.
"Gracious, surely you didn't go as far as that," Mrs. Allen cried, casting a jealous look at her sleeping infant and sweeping it on to her grinning spouse. "Didn't I, though!" Wrinkle spat, gleefully. "Alf has often said I couldn't fool him, an' we'll see we'll see this pop." "It certainly is a corker," Allen declared "that is, if he swallows it."
Her head was held low the true bloodhound poise and that position exaggerated the remarkable wealth of velvety "wrinkle" with which her forehead had been endowed by nature, after the selective breeding of centuries.
She leaned a little forward and looked into his face. "Wonderful person!" she declared. "Never a line or a wrinkle!" He smiled. "I live quietly," he said. "I am out of doors all day. Excitement of any sort has not touched my life for many years. Sometimes I feel that this perfect health is a torture. Sometimes I am afraid of never growing old."
His hair, which was long, and of a rich and deep brown, was worn back from his face and temples, and left a broad high majestic forehead utterly unrelieved and bare; and on the brow there was not a single wrinkle, it was as smooth as it might have been some fifteen years ago.
Old Jason, his eyes raised in searching for the choicest fruit among the low branches of the trees, did not see his son till he was close behind him. "Now, Pa," Dick Wrinkle began, calmly enough, "don't jump out o' your hide. Reports to the contrary, I'm alive and kicking."
Hugh used to call Sierra Leone, "Sarah Alone;" Cambodia, "Gamboge;" Stromboli, "Storm-boiler;" and Gibraltar, "Gabriel Tar." How we used to wrinkle with laughter at his sallies, launched with an artistically unconscious air, until the swooping cane came swishing down on our backs! And here I was in Gabriel Tar.
Slowly she went to get out a wrap and a hat. Standing before the glass she adjusted the hat on her head carefully, adroitly; then she drew the wrap around her shoulders and picked up a pair of long gloves. After an instant of hesitation she began to pull them on. The process took several minutes. She was careful to smooth out every wrinkle. While she did so she was thinking of Rosamund Leith.
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