At other times, according to the quality of the emotion, they glowed literally like blue flames.

He was considered queer-tempered, rather sulky, and his face often took on a very unyielding expression.
He had thick reddish-yellow eyebrows at the base of a slightly receding forehead--wanting in benevolence, phrenologists would have said, and with the bump of self-esteem considerably developed.

His hair was yellow, pure and simple--the color of spun silk, only coarser, and it would have curled at the ends had he not worn it close-cropped.

His moustache and beard were rather deeper yellow, the beard short, well-shaped--the cut of Colin McKeith's beard was almost his only vanity--there was one other, the 'millionare strut' in town--and he had the masculine habit of stroking and clasping his beard with his large open-fingered hand--spatulate tips to his digits, the practical hand--fairly well kept, though brown and hairy.
There were lines in his face and a way of setting his features--that a man gets when he has to front straight some cruel facts of human existance--to calculate at a glance the chances of death from a black's spear, a lost trail, an empty water-bag, the horns of a charging bullock or even worse things than these.
And such experiences had put a stamp on him, and distinguished him from the ordinary ruck of men--these and his undeniable manliness, and good looks.
He smiled as he glanced amusedly from the littered wind-blown papers on the table to his hostess' rather troubled face.
'Well you seem to have a pretty fair show here of what you call "copy,"' he said.
Mrs Gildea met his look with one of frank pleasure.
'That's what I want YOU for.' 'What's the job ?' he asked.

'You ought to know that literary "copy" is not much in my line.