For ever restless, he went here, there, everywhere.

He determined to work.

But when he had made six strokes, he loathed the pencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried off to a club where he could play cards or billiards, to a place where he could flirt with a barmaid who was no more to him than the brass pump-handle she drew.
He was very thin and lantern-jawed.

He dared not meet his own eyes in the mirror; he never looked at himself.

He wanted to get away from himself, but there was nothing to get hold of.