His face was red.

The sun shone on his face.

His face was sweaty and dirty.

The Indian lay with his face toward the wall.

They were swearing at him and flopping the cape in his face.

Maera lay still, his head on his arms, his face in the sand.

He liked her face because it was so jolly but he never thought about her.

Rinaldi, big backed, his equipment sprawling, lay face downward against the wall.

He executed an abrupt about-face and returned to the living room, where he renewed his pacing.

He was very short with a brown face and quite drunk and he said, “After all, it has happened before like that.”

Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face.

Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward.

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see.

Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.