Each time the fall of a city like Naples, Rome or Florence seemed imminent, Major — de Coverley would pack his musette bag, commandeer an airplane and a pilot, and have himself flown away, accomplishing all this without uttering a word, by the sheer force of his solemn, domineering visage and the peremptory gestures of his wrinkled finger.
Doc Daneeka had lost his head during Milo’s bombardment; instead of running for cover, he had remained out in the open and performed his duty, slithering along the ground through shrapnel, strafing and incendiary bombs like a furtive, wily lizard from casualty to casualty, administering tourniquets, morphine, splints and sulfanilamide with a dark and doleful visage, never saying one word more than he had to and reading in each man’s bluing wound a dreadful portent of his own decay.
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Show samples from other sources
I am (was) a journalist, I know the drill, and so when I said those words—the Ellen Abbott effect—I recognized Sharon’s mouth twitch, the delicately raised eyebrows, the lightening of her whole visage.
Gillian Flynn -- Gone Girl
The man sat forward with elbows on knees, hands clenched together, his entire visage appearing as if it might melt and drip onto the floor.