Long thin wisps of silvery, unkempt hair framed his face like an aureole.

He was slender to emaciation, cavernously checked, roll after roll of skin, no longer encasing flesh or muscle, hanging grotesquely down his neck and swathing the Adam's apple so that only occasionally, with queer swallowing motions, did it peep out of the mummy-wrappings of skin and sink back again from view.
A proper ancient mariner, thought Daughtry.

Might be seventy-five, might just as well be a hundred and five, or a hundred and seventy-five.
Beginning at the right temple, a ghastly scar split the cheek-bone, sank into the depths of the hollow cheek, notched across the lower jaw, and plunged to disappearance among the prodigious skin-folds of the neck.

The withered lobes of both ears were perforated by tiny gypsy-like circles of gold.

On the skeleton fingers of his right hand were no less than five rings--not men's rings, nor women's, but foppish rings--"that would fetch a price," Daughtry adjudged.