The most that one could do, however, was to wait grimly and doggedly, suppressing an imprecation as, from time to time, one looked at one's watch.

An attitude of positive urbanity toward life was not to be expected; it was doing one's duty to hold one's tongue and keep one's hands off one's own windpipe, and other people's.
Roderick had long silences, fits of profound lethargy, almost of stupefaction.

He used to sit in the garden by the hour, with his head thrown back, his legs outstretched, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes fastened upon the blinding summer sky.

He would gather a dozen books about him, tumble them out on the ground, take one into his lap, and leave it with the pages unturned.

These moods would alternate with hours of extreme restlessness, during which he mysteriously absented himself.