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Wordsworth, W. Yeats, W. Roosevelt, T. Stein, G. Stevenson, R. Wells, H. Wilstach, comp. Frank J. A Dictionary of Similes. Pale as an Angel of the Grave. Pale as linen.

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Pale as parchment. Pale as the gleam of a glow-worm. Pale as the haggard features of despair. Pale as the rose-leaves withered in the northern gale. Pale as turnips were his cheeks. Pale as with the sickness that promised death. Grew pale, like a flower that is cut off.

Haggard - In A Pale Moon´s Shadow

Pale as a moon that moves alone through lonely space. Pale as snowdrift in the frost. Pale as the moon before the solar ray. Pale as a white stone. Pale as baby carved in stone. Pale as the silver cross of Savoy. Pale as a spectre. Pale like only lily.

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Pale as ashes, or a clout. Pale as death. Like a dede ymage, pale and wan.

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Palle as asshen colde. Pale as a witch. Pale as driven by a beating storm at sea. Pale as a new cheese. Pale as a wreath of Alpine snow. Pale as a candle. Pale as a muffin. Pale as fires when mastered by the night.

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    Saurabh 87 books view quotes. Hale had never said told-you-so, of course. Hale was much too classy and reserved for such recriminations. But he had that look. That soupy, judgemental thing that his eyebrows did, along with the squiggle-eyed glare. The whole thing had been quite admirably resolved, as long as Stiles had no attachment to his dignity. Well, Hale certainly seemed to think it was worth the cost. And he supposed, in the whole, as long as that meant the Aunts stopped heaving available maidens at his head and fortune, that looking a fool was a compromise he could make. But now here he is, tied to a bally pipe in the dark, and no Halesian eyebrows in sight to help him.

    Because desperate times, and what have you, something about measuring…. Over which the remaining Stilinski tribe despairs, anyway, for poor Stiles, scion of the line and future heir to the peerage. Stiles straightens up and blinks a few times, gathering up a bit of the old stiff upper lip. His white hair gleams in the light, and when he tilts his face up, Stiles recognizes him.

    Stiles clears his throat. His voice is a bit rusty, but he motors bravely on. Argent gives him a droll moue, rearranging the wrinkles on his face into a most unpleasant pattern. You are precisely the gentleman we wished to knock on the head and tie up to a pole. Stiles is rather taken aback by the admission, and at a loss for where the conversation should go from here. I really had no interest, I swear, especially since her heart belonged to another.

    Ah, Stiles thinks, thinking of her skill at archery. Perhaps just not quite as superb a swimmer, then.


    He wisely drops the subject. He jerks himself free and knocks his head again on the pole, adding a nice ringing of the ears to the aggressive basso rumble in the room, which seems to be coming from the thug whose… eyes are glowing blue. They certainly are. Stiles thinks he can see a glimmer reflect off of…. Is that a fang? Does the thug have fangs?

    So he slouches as low on the old tailbone as he can and kicks out viciously with the leg closest to gramps the eye-glowy, growling, befanged thug is too far away to reach and biffs him a good one right along the side of his knee, relishing the thump that results.