He sat in a chair in front of the fire, some distance back, and stretched his long legs far in front of him.

His chin too was sunk on his breast, his young forehead was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little tipsy, a little satyr-like.

His small moustache was reddish.
Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and bottles.

It was evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for choice.

He wanted to get fat--that was his idea.