A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway:
“Oh here you are,” he said.
It was Ford Madox Ford, as he called himself then, and he was breathing heavily through a heavy, stained mustache and holding himself as upright as an ambulatory, well clothed, up-ended hogshead.
“May I sit with you?” he asked, sitting down, and his eyes which were a washed-out blue under colorless lids and eyebrows looked out at the boulevard.
“I spent good years of my life that those beasts should be slaughtered humanely,” he said.