Weaselly

The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure, a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair of spectacles.

“Pretty?” […] Mr. Prestcott considered. “Fair to middling. Bit weaselly, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t have been much without makeup. As it was, she managed to look quite attractive.”

At three minutes past six the door opened to admit the naked, scrawny figure of Tingaling Bell. He had a sharp weasely face and a miserable body on which each bone showed.

On still weasellier, greasier members of the clique.

I lifted the extension, slowly released the button, easing in mid-ring like the weaselliest weasel.

He looks like a shorter, thinner, weasellier version of Tom Jones, and he sure knows how to work a crowd.

That was when the constantly complaining but unseen dog showed itself, if it was actually a dog. The weaselly little creature crawled out from under the couch—more rodential than canine, Pepe thought.

More members arrive. […] Lucifer, small and fat and weasellier (e.g. more like a weasel) than ever, and a few other nonentities whose names Fricka can never remember.