He stood silent at the foot of the tree looking across the chamber at his enemy.

Did no feeling of compassion disturb his sombre breast?
The man was not wholly evil; he loved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no mean performer on the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted, the idyllic nature of the scene stirred him profoundly.

Mastered by his better self he would have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one thing.
What stayed him was Peter's impertinent appearance as he slept.

The open mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one may hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness.

They steeled Hook's heart.