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Updated: June 16, 2025
The major was drawing back, his face growing yellow-white with some strange dismay. "You don't seem sure of my identity. Let me refresh your memory, Burleigh. I am Captain Newhall. I see you need a drink, major I'll take one with you." For nearly a week after the home-coming of his beloved daughter John Folsom was too happy in her presence to give much thought to other matters.
Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat.
The beautiful color was all faded out of the yellow-white face; the sweet full lips were set and thin; the closed blue eyes sunken in dark hollows; the yellow hair showed a line of gray at the edge of her old woman's cap, and thin gray curls lay against the hollow cheeks. But old Thomas Merriam drew a long breath when he looked at her.
Presently we came to trees, all charred and brown, and so to a bare place covered with a yellow-white incrustation, across which a drifting smoke, pungent in whiffs to nose and eyes, went drifting. On our right, over a shoulder of bare rock, I saw the level blue of the sea. The path coiled down abruptly into a narrow ravine between two tumbled and knotty masses of blackish scoriae.
As before, the little yellow-white nightshirt lay over the chair-back; and as before, Mrs. Holly had brushed away a tear as she had placed it there. As before, too, the big four-posted bed loomed tall and formidable in the corner. But this time the coverlet and sheet were turned back invitingly Mrs. Holly had been much disturbed to find that David had slept on the floor the night before.
Then there was an old wife that lived in the cabin, an old wife made of sole leather, with yellow-white hair and a thin, pinched face and a body all angles, chest, arms, everywhere, outlined through her straight up and down calico dress. When she spoke, however, you stopped to listen, it was like a wood sound, low and far away, soft as a bird call.
And at the words a small figure in a yellow-white nightshirt stopped short. David, violin in hand, had fled from the little hot room, and stood now just inside the kitchen door. "Who can want a child that has been brought up in that heathenish fashion?" continued Simeon Holly.
The thing had toppled backward, with me sprawling upon its bloated bulk. It struggled, writhed ... Its arms gripped me, its huge fingers clutched my throat ... I caught a glimpse of its smashed face ... so close, I turned away ... a face of yellow-white pulp ... My fist cracked and sank into its chest.
And he laid his plump, yellow-white fingers, on which the canary-birds had been perching ten minutes before, upon the formidable brute's head, and looked him straight in the eyes. "You big dogs are all cowards," he said, addressing the animal contemptuously, with his face and the dog's within an inch of each other. "You would kill a poor cat, you infernal coward.
"Inside there come out!" 'The doctor and some of the hospital people came to see what was the matter. The doctor was a heavy swell, with a big cigar, held up in front of him between two fat, soft, yellow-white fingers, and a dandy little pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses nipped onto his nose with a spring.
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