Twain's End - Pg 43

   At fifty-three, he was handsome in an almost violent way, his gray eyes too piercing, his cheekbones too raw, his arched nose somehow sexual. Although he was only sitting there and smoking, his energy seized the little room. His avalanche of silver-shot auburn hair, even his mustache--a coarse, impenetrable, orange and black buffer between the world and the man--was aggressive.