He had been a creature of action too long for that.

He hunted the wild cattle over the hills, and, now and then, taking the dinghy he hunted the sharks also.

Whenever he found one he did not spare the bullets.

His finger did not stop at the trigger, but pulled hard, and he rarely missed.
But in spite of reading and action, time dragged heavily.

The old loneliness and desolation would return and they were hard to dispel.