Quotes About Leathery

She was accompanied by a vital, leathery taxpayer with protuberant eyes, opulently clad in a black astrakhan coat sporting a mink collar. His face was screwed around an unlit Partagas which he was savagely chewing into submission.

He was a crusty old bastard, dressed like my uncle in ancient denim coveralls, espadrilles and beret. He had a leathery, tanned and windblown face, hollow cheeks, and the tiny broken blood vessels on nose and cheeks that everyone seemed to have from drinking so much of the local Bordeaux.

If one's memories of Baghdad women were only of those to be seen in the streets, they would be of leathery, wrinkled faces, prematurely old, figures which have lost all shape, and henna-stained hands crinkled and deformed by toil.

Their hands were also huge – two massive leathery mitts that looked like hairy wicket keeper's gloves.

That's a big trunk, James said, as we jammed in the leathery old case that looked so much like the black heart of some leviathan. It fits a tuba, three suitcases, a dead dog, and a garment bag almost perfectly. That's just what they used to say in the ads, I said...

The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leathery wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.

Mr. Wegg sits down on a box in front of the fire, and inhales a warm and comfortable smell which is not the smell of the shop. 'For that,' Mr. Wegg inwardly decides, as he takes a corrective sniff or two, 'is musty, leathery, feathery, cellary, gluey, gummy, and,' with another sniff, 'as it might be, strong of old pairs of bellows.

But he finally caught and killed some kind of large, warty pig with leathery skin,

I found Albatross Airlines down at the far end of the terminal. A woman in a brown uniform stood behind the counter. She was about fifty, with a leathery face that looked like my cab driver's twin. I wondered if she was the girlfriend of my new friend on the dock. For his sake, I hoped not.

George Vida braced his hands on the table before taking his seat, his gaze strafing the room with the discernment of a leathery old goat sniffing for something to nibble on.

It was a large, tawny hound, smoke-gray in color. One of its dangling ears had been ripped and was almost healed. Tom looked wonderingly at it. Its outward confirmation was similar to the Plott hounds that made up old Bill's pack, but it was not a Plott hound. Its jowls were very heavy, and overhung the lower jaw in leathery folds. On the sad-looking face, tan relieved the hounds smoky-gray color.

Penn cautiously reached out and touched the dragon's scales. She had expected them to be hot but they were curiously cool. But he was real. He was an actual, live dragon and right in this very moment she could feel his leathery scales under her hand and the power of twin hearts beating in his chest. Penn felt something in her mind slipping – adjusting and rearranging to make room for the previously impossible. The Wintrish Girl

Fick's eyes refocused, blinking from the cold wind of the incoming storm on his leathery face, he realized he was half-listening to some radio traffic. Something about some junior enlisted personnel caught fucking in the woods. Jesus Christ in an Alligator Fuckhouse, he thought, coming back from his unaccustomed philosophical maundering. What kind of goat-fellating third-world communist cock-suck military are they running around here?