As Judith would say, he has a temperament.

His moustaches curl fiercely upward until the points are nearly on a level with his flashing dark eyes.

Another point of dissimilarity between us is that he seems to have been poured molten into his clothes, whereas mine hang as from pegs clumsily arranged about my person.

By no conceivable freak of outer circumstance could I have the adventures of Pasquale.
And yet he thinks them tame! Lord! If I found myself hatching conspiracies in Sofia on a nest made of loaded revolvers, I should feel that the wild whirl of Bedlam had broken loose around me.
"But man alive!" I cried.

"What in the name of tornadoes do you want ?" "I want to fight," said he.