His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony he had imagined for his friend.

The face of the moose is as sad as the face of Jesus.

he was doing nothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing; he was merely suffering.

.. the men of the cave would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes...

It was a careworn face. But most of the lines, if followed back like a trail, would lead to happiness. To the faces a face made when laughing or smiling, or sitting quietly enjoying the day.

Though some of those lines led elsewhere. Into a wilderness, into the wild. Where terrible things had happened. Some of the lines of his face led to events inhuman and abominable. To horrific sights. To unspeakable acts.

Some of them his.

The lines of his face were the longitude and latitude of his life.

The spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach. The man's eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown. His gray, appalling face had attracted attention in the crowd, and men, slowing to his dreary pace, were walking with him. They were discussing his plight, questioning him and giving him advice. In a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on and leave him alone. The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on, he seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a grave.

The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on, he seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a grave.

She looked up at him and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and he could see her throat move in the light and he saw in her face and in her figure something he'd not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow.

In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met <i>did not see me</i>.

- <i>Bad Blood</i>

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

It's not a pretty face, I grant you. But underneath its flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character.

I see the eyes but not the tears
This is my affliction.

...the look of a man who had made the devil's bargain and knew he had lost.

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;