Showing posts with label whiskers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whiskers. Show all posts

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

One foot in the grave



. . . after all, the old man was in his nineties, and it must be a great ordeal to have to make his way, even being driven, through all the bustle of London on the brink of hostilities. But a glance across the table reassured him — one foot in the grave he might have, and shockingly ravaged he might look, but Sir Harry appeared in no need of consideration. His flushed satyr face was grinning contentedly, his glossy white whiskers and mane shone in the lamplight, which glinted on the mass of bronze and silver and gold miniatures on his breast, and on the orders which hung on ribbons over his massive shoulders.


Mr American, pp.517-18, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.


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Friday, 5 April 2013

A curious, knowing expression



‘Well good-night to you, young Franklin. Yes give me a call one of these days. Perhaps you can tell me a few tales, instead. You’re an interesting chap, you know.’ The grostesquely-mottled old face with its flowing whiskers wore a curious, knowing expression. ‘Knew it the first time I saw you. Yes. You’ve got gunfighter’s eyes.’


Mr American, p.439, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.


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Tuesday, 29 January 2013

Growing old disgracefully



There was the sound of a newspaper being violently crumpled, a creaking of springs, and elderly arthritic gasps, and then a man emerged from behind the screen. He was extremely old and extremely large; Mr Franklin had an impression of stalwart height, and massive shoulders encased in a beautifully-cut frock coat of antique design, with a flower in its button-hole; above, reared a striking head of silver hair framing a lined, mottled face half-concealed by magnificent flowing white whiskers. It was the face of an aged, inebriated satyr, with a prominent, heavily-veined nose and dark, bloodshot eyes which glared past Mr Franklin at the conversing couple . . .


Mr American, p.184, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.


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Tuesday, 18 September 2012

Antique whiskers



. . . and then I remembered that this same Napier, with his antique whiskers and one foot in the grave, had recently married a spanking little filly of eighteen, which had plainly influenced his outlook on commerce with the fairer sex; no wonder he looked as though he’d been fed through a mangle.


Flashman on the March, p.58, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2005.


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Friday, 14 September 2012

He will surely do



      They were the kind of words you’d expect to hear from a Brooke or a Custer, spoken with a heroic flourish and a fist on a table. Napier said them with all the fervour of a man reading a railway time-table . . . but I thought, farewell and adieu, Brother Theodore, your goose is cooked; this quiet old buffer with the dreary whiskers may not shout the odds, but what he says he will surely do.


Flashman on the March, pp.53-4, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2005.


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Wednesday, 11 January 2012

Nothing like the job





…kings and chancellors confided in him, empresses and grand duchesses whispered him their secrets, prime ministers and ambassadors sought his advice, and while he was up to every smoky dodge in his hunt for news, he never broke a pledge or betrayed a confidence — or so everyone said, Blowitz loudest of all. I guess his appearance helped, for he was nothing like the job at all, being a five-foot butterball with a beaming baby face behind a mighty moustache, innocent blue eyes, bald head, and frightful whiskers a foot long…

Flashman and the Tiger, p.14, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Thursday, 3 November 2011

Doffing his tile



The Yankee secret service evidently left nothing to chance. “Good luck, Comber . . . and,” he added quietly, “if need be, good hunting.” Cool as a trout, rot him, doffing his tile and knuckling his lip-whisker as we drove away.


Flashman and the Angel of the Lord, p.196, Harper Collins, 1995.


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Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Brisk overhaul



There’s nothing like a brisk overhaul of a sporty female, with the certainty of a treat in store, for putting one in temper. And it goes to show — whiskers ain’t everything


Flashman and the Mountain of Light, p.71, Fontana Paperback edition, 1991.



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Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Too close a shave



…I decided to complete my misery by shaving my whiskers — that’s how reduced I was. When I’d done, and stared at my naked chops in the glass, remembering how Elspeth had adored my face-furniture and sworn they were what had first won her girlish heart, I could have wept.


Flashman and the Mountain of Light, p.47, Fontana Paperback edition, 1991.



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Friday, 22 January 2010

Whiskery blandishments



…I wasn’t fooled by her airs, or the set-down she’d tried to give me by warning me not to try to come round her with whiskery blandishments.



Flashman in the Great Game, p.85, Pan edition, 4th printing, 1979.




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Monday, 18 January 2010

Clearly, not a leg man



There was strength in every line of her, too, for all her femininity – by George, I couldn’t remember when I’d seen bouncers like those, thrusting like pumpkins against the muslin of her blouse, which was open to the jeweled clasp at her breastbone – if it hadn’t been for a couple of discreetly embroidered flowers on either side, there would have been nothing at all to hide. I could only stand speechless before such queenly beauty, wondering what it would be like to tear the muslin aside, thrust your whikers in between ’em, and go brrrrr!



Flashman in the Great Game, p.79, Pan edition, 4th printing, 1979.




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Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Well-washed exquisite




I was aware that Albert was speaking, in that heavy, German voice; he was still the cold, well-washed exquisite I had first met 12 years ago, with those frightful whiskers that looked as though someone had tried to pluck them and left off half-way through.



Flashman at the Charge, p.33, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.




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Tuesday, 12 May 2009

A trot-along look



Well, well, thinks I, little Vicky remembers my whiskers after all these years. I recalled how she had mooned tearfully at me when she pinned my medal on, back in ’42 – they’re all alike you know, can’t resist a dashing boy with big shoulders and a trot-along look in his eye.



Flashman at the Charge, p.31, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.




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Tuesday, 21 April 2009

A craze for growing moustaches



When there’s been a bad harvest, and workers are striking, and young chaps have developed a craze for growing moustaches and whiskers, just watch out.



Flashman at the Charge, p.14, Pan edition, 5th printing, 1979.




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Saturday, 21 March 2009

Down comes the captain



And sure enough, down comes the captain presently, all gravity and grey whiskers…



Flash For Freedom!, p.225, Pan edition, 8th printing, 1980.




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Tuesday, 24 February 2009

Where would Flash be?



I kept my whiskers, of course – where would Flash be without his tart-catchers?



Flash For Freedom!, p.136, Pan edition, 8th printing, 1980.




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Tuesday, 2 September 2008

Almost Famous



Of course, I’d had plenty of admiration when I came home from Afghanistan, but that was different. Then they’d said: ‘There’s the heroic Flashman, the bluff young lionheart who slaughters niggers* and upholds old England’s honour. Gad, look at those whiskers!’ Which was splendid but didn’t suggest that I was more than human.



Royal Flash, p.145, Pan edition, 8th printing, 1978.


*Flashman's use of racial epitahs is a continuing problem for more enlightened, contemporary readers. The inclusion of these passages should not be taken as tacit support for his misanthropic, 19th century view of race relations.

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Friday, 20 June 2008

Exceedingly brown


‘You are exceedingly brown,’ says one of the men, and the heavy German accent startled me. I’d noticed him out of the tail of my eye, leaning against the mantel, with one leg crossed over the other. So, this was Prince Albert, I thought; what hellish looking whiskers.



Flashman, p.272, Pan edition, 12th printing, 1979.




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