To all of this the deputy listened sadly, combing his mustaches.
Fishily fixed, while the master blasphemed behind his mustaches.
Women always looked at a man's figure, his eyes, his teeth, his mustaches.
"It is very good of him," said the Marchesino, pulling at his mustaches.
He laughed again, seized his mustaches, twisted them, and went on.
He was ninety years old, and his mustaches were like whisk-brooms.
With one hand hipping his saber and the other curling his mustaches, he smiled at her.
He twisted his mustaches, muttered, and "pested," and was ill at ease.
He stamped backwards and forwards, and twisted his mustaches, and swore.
Any other man would have been proud to wear them as mustaches.