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But I plan to make use of their immense knowledge. Oh, yes! And then, my dear little Tiger, THEN! I shall reach out to my definitive prize in all the Lunechien Forest. That big wrinkly fellow I saw not too long ago. He had a nose like a garden hose, but my little bug has unwittingly told me that he is the one to whom the forest beasts turn when they have problems.
Sarah thinks he has whiskers." "An' I never think of him with his hair parted," Mary confessed, daring the thought and shivering with apprehension. "He just couldn't have his hair parted. THAT'D be funny." "You know that little, wrinkly Mexican that sells wire puzzles?" Saxon queried. "Well, God somehow always reminds me of him." Mary laughed outright. "Now that IS funny.
The former was as grotesque a type of the jolly old vendeuse of Paris as it would be possible to find. A low, winey humor twinkled in her little black eyes, hidden in wrinkly wads of fat; her nose glowed with good feeling; her toothless mouth smirked good-naturedly.
On walking past the ox-barn they glanced casually at the tavern-boat, blacker and more ramshackle every day. Adiós, mare! They had caught sight of their mother's glossy wrinkly face peering over the counter in front of the opening into the wine store, her head swathed as usual in a white kerchief like a coif.
The breeches were certainly rather wrinkly above the knees, and the jacket was somewhat uncomfortably tight across the chest when buttoned over; it also pinched me a good deal under the arm-pits, whilst the sleeves exhibited a trifle too much some six inches or so of my wristbands and shirt-sleeves; and when I looked at myself in the glass I found that there was a well-defined ridge of loose cloth running across the back from shoulder to shoulder.
A rugged, rough-hewn, rather blunt-nosed physiognomy: cheek-bones high, cheeks somewhat bagged and wrinkly; eyes with a due shade of anxiety and sadness in them; affectionate simplicity, faithfulness, intelligence, veracity looking out of every feature of him.
"I am." "Pu-pu-pup." She leaned around, trying to bring her face to front his and to lift her nose to a little wrinkly smile. "Aw, you!" "Go home and go to bed," he said. "A nice-appearin' girl like you ought to be ashamed." "I ain't." "Run along." "Where?" "You're barkin' up the wrong tree." She fell silent. A chill raced through her. "O God!" she began, under her breath. "O God! God!"
Against the wrinkly mirror stood pictures of General Kitchener, William Muldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Benvenuto Cellini. Against one wall was a plaster of Paris plaque of an O'Callahan in a Roman helmet. Near it was a violent oleograph of a lemon-coloured child assaulting an inflammatory butterfly. This was Dulcie's final judgment in art; but it had never been upset.
It makes me feel as if my face must be all screwy up and wrinkly, and as if I should have spectacles on and a wig." "That is not like what Miss Sybilla was when I first saw her," said Dorcas. "She was younger than you, missie, and as pretty as a fairy." "Was she?" exclaimed Griselda, stopping short. "Yes, indeed she was. She might have been a fairy, so sweet she was and gentle and yet so merry.
"No, but she hed a piece o' that pretty wrinkly paper jes' like the lamp-shades in the winders, and she said the baskets was made o' that, and she was buyin' some ribbon to match for handles and bows." "Oh, I wish I could see one of 'em," said Lizzie. "I went to a kinnergarden school wonst when I was a little kid," struck in Becky here, "and we was put up there to makin' baskets out o' paper."
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