Full of bitterness, he walked to the living room and examined the smashed windows, the pocked walls, the damaged chandelier.
His Negroid features, streaked with dust and pocked with leaf fragments, had whitened.
A rook rifle was leaning tip against it, and looking round I saw that the walls were all pocked with bullet marks.
Pools line my walk, and lie thick upon the roadway, their surface pocked by the falling drops.
As we moved along the brown band of shell-pocked desolation we continued to climb.
Tens of thousands of shells had pocked the dirty soil, scores of mine explosions had cratered it.
The men laughed and sang and talked of the drive, and of the waterfront dives of cities, whose calk-pocked floors spoke the shame of the men of the logs.
Then in the middle of the blue came a patch of black, and spread and spread till the huge expanse was all black, pocked with the khaki-coloured boulders and bordered with the blue of the ever-extending fire.
Its brain is not the Town Hall, the best target in Ladysmith, but Headquarters under the stone-pocked hill.
But in that cold wet nothing it tinged and flaked as if with rust, was pocked and threw out buds like a face torn by a shotgun.
The land too, upon closer inspection, was pocked with craters, and littered with ugly shapes of pocked and polished iron.
He was closer still, the web becoming an expanding grid pocked with dark and geometric holes.
And of this tufty flaggy ground, pocked with bogs and boglets, one especial nature is that it will not hold impressions.
Wherever the butt-end of a hedgerow came up from the hollow ground, like the withers of a horse, holes of splash werepocked and pimpled in the yellow sand of coneys, or under the dwarf tree's ovens.
The sound seemed to come from above and behind her, moving with deliberate slowness toward the nearer reaches of the sandstone ridge, now painted a deep orange-red and pocked with growing shadows.
The water-pocked sand beneath her felt cold and invigorating.
Her arm pointed out over the grass- and tree-pocked drifts of the savanna.
There was a big black man lying where he had fallen, his huge chest pocked with bullet-marks, every wound rosetted with its circle of flies.
This was sumptuous and yet dirty, hung with rare velvet curtains splashed with wine-stains, and panelled with costly woods which were pocked with pistol-marks.
Early on the 17th a runner from the 29th Marines scrambled up to the shell-pocked crater with orders for the two Marines to “get the hell out.
