He was in the books himself, adventuring through the printed pages of bound volumes.
But while he belied Arthur's description, and appeared a gentle lamb rather than a wild man, he was racking his brains for a course of action.
He was no gentle lamb, and the part of second fiddle would never do for the high-pitched dominance of his nature.

He talked only when he had to, and then his speech was like his walk to the table, filled with jerks and halts as he groped in his polyglot vocabulary for words, debating over words he knew were fit but which he feared he could not pronounce, rejecting other words he knew would not be understood or would be raw and harsh.

But all the time he was oppressed by the consciousness that this carefulness of diction was making a booby of him, preventing him from expressing what he had in him.

Also, his love of freedom chafed against the restriction in much the same way his neck chafed against the starched fetter of a collar.

Besides, he was confident that he could not keep it up.