The old woman was a
gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue.
On the trees are only a few
gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected.
There were fifty frightful men with hairy bodies and
gnarled and crooked legs.
Below them, as they mounted, they glimpsed great
gnarled trunks and branches of ancient trees, and above them were similar great
gnarled branches.
I thought my quest had brought me into a strange old haunted forest, and that I had thrown myself down to rest at the
gnarled mossy root of a great oak-tree, while all about me was nought but fantastic shapes and capricious groups of gold-green bole and bough, wondrous alleys ending in mysterious coverts, and green lanes of exquisite turf that seemed to have been laid down in expectation of some milk-white queen or goddess passing that way.
With its huge ungainly limbs sprawling unsymmetrically, and its
gnarled hands and fingers, it stood an aged, stern, and scornful monster among the smiling birch trees.
His father was a spare old man, his hands
gnarled after the work of a lifetime, silent and upright; in the evening he read the paper aloud, while his wife and daughter (now married to the captain of a fishing smack), unwilling to lose a moment, bent over their sewing.
Gnarled and crooked and with flexible hardness shall it then stand by the sea, a living lighthouse of unconquerable life.
The coachman, a hard-faced,
gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road.
He ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals, -- breakfast and dinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly grew all
gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still grow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure.
Old and
gnarled it may be, and yet you don't cut down the old fellow to make room for the flowerbeds, but lay out your beds so as to take advantage of the tree.
When you ride through one of these villages at noon-day, you first meet a melancholy dog, that looks up at you and silently begs that you won't run over him, but he does not offer to get out of the way; next you meet a young boy without any clothes on, and he holds out his hand and says "Bucksheesh!" --he don't really expect a cent, but then he learned to say that before he learned to say mother, and now he can not break himself of it; next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn closely over her face, and her bust exposed; finally, you come to several sore-eyed children and children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a poor devil whose arms and legs are
gnarled and twisted like grape-vines.
