He was huge. Tall and broad, with unruly white hair and beard, though his face seemed startlingly pale when paired with the reddened cheeks and nose of a serious drinker. He wore an ancient, old-fashioned long underwear shirt that might have been World War II army surplus. He gave one last wracking cough, then took a deep breath and turned to regard me with eyes that were bleary, but bright blue, not bloodshot.
"A vision of womanliness," he said in a thick, English accent. Even with all my Public Television viewing, I couldn't place its location in the British Isles.
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