For the rest, he is endowed with a vigorous frame, a particular warmth of imagination, and an uncommon strength of lungs.

If you ever meet him, unless you happen to be arrested by his originality, you will either stuff your fingers into your ears or else take to your heels.

Heavens, what a monstrous pipe! Nothing is so little like him as himself.

One time he is lean and wan, like a patient in the last stage of consumption: you could count his teeth through his cheeks; you would say he must have passed some days without tasting a morsel, or that he is fresh from La Trappe.

A month after, he is stout and sleek as if he had been sitting all the time at the board of a financier, or had been shut up in a Bernardine monastery.
To-day in dirty linen, his clothes torn and patched, with barely a shoe to his foot, he steals along with a bent head; one is tempted to hail him and toss him a shilling.