It is Behrman who has the grip of us and will never let go till he has squeezed us bone dry.
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below.
Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room.
Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't.