Word: tattooed
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...main, Saltacres is a study in novelists' materials. Reeds, rushes, weatherbeaten barns, pebbled beaches, a whitish sea, gulls and blackbirds gliding and skimming from foam-splashed boulder to knotted and salt-rimed stump, broken love to the tattoo of sympathetic rains and a pathological religions mania to the cresendo of a venegeful thunderstorm, delight the eye and, chaotically enough, provoke the emotions but the relation of these things to a masterful novel is less than that of sand to granite. Not only should, in this case the parts or particles cohere more closely but there might well be other elements...
...forehead, one above the other in the manner of an inverted, or English, chevron, and then rubbed mud and same into the wounds so that they would stand out prettily. "Nothing is too good for our boy," they probably said, as they dragged him around to the local tattoo expert, to have the Hand of Fatime, (for luck), tattooed on one cheek, and an extremely orthodox crescent on the other. Religion is not easily changed in North Africa...
...insurance clerk sat in an office in Cornhill, England, arranging typewritten papers in neat dockets and whistling cheerily as if to show his indifference to the rain that beat a tattoo on his roof -like drumming hoofs, he thought. King George of England sat staring politely into the same rain from a box at a race track. In a leather chair in Berkeley Square, London, Lord Woolavington (once Sir James Buchanan) regarded the lengthening silver ash of his cigar, and though separated from each other by space and, apparently by opposing interests, the fortunes of these three gentlemen were interwoven...
...overcame certain physical weaknesses during his student days in Strasbourg. Living before our mechanical age, he was not accustomed to loud noises, which jarred his nerves. He trained his nerves by standing close to the drummers of the French garrison every evening when they sounded tattoo, a rather violent method as he admits himself...
...Poor Tom on Lear's heath, was befriended by Quong Lee, Chinese storekeeper, to the day when his first short story was published. Calm faces of Canton and Malaya move through mist down a narrow London street; in bad doorways, sailors' knives flash; the rain beats a tattoo of talons on the windows of the house of Quong Lee; the wind sniffs under the door. Tom, the Hardcress Kid, is safe now, warm, dry, nor does he try to cast over the shiverings of his penury any glamour other than that which properly belongs to peril overpast...