The president stares at him, his kind eyes emanating genuine compassion through his granddad spectacles.
Most of the fellows that got the worst of it with the Indians was some one's granddad, I reckon.
"Granddad" himself, as Malasha in her own mind called Kutuzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven.
"Blow the horn, granddad blow the horn," screamed the woman.
Granddad heard the noise, a sort of tapping, but he couldn't see anything until he looked out the pantry window.
I used often to wish that Madame Tomaso had granddad to deal with.
