He had in it a tiny box-stove, red-hot from fall to spring.

When Jerome, coming on a cold night, opened the door, a hot breath scented with dried leather rushed in his face.

Within sat his uncle on his shoemaker's bench, short and squat like an Eastern idol on his throne.

His body was settled into itself with long habit of labor, his mind with contemplation.

His high, bald forehead overshadowed his lower face like a promontory of thought; his eyes, even when he was alone, were full of a wise, condemning observation; his mouth was inclined always in a set smile at the bitter humor of things.