The chest was deep, it is true, cavernously deep; but there were no full-swelling muscles, no wide-spreading shoulders, no clean-limbed straightness, no generous symmetry of outline.

It represented strength, that body of my father's, strength without beauty; ferocious, primordial strength, made to clutch and gripe and rend and destroy.
His hips were thin; and the legs, lean and hairy, were crooked and stringy-muscled.

In fact, my father's legs were more like arms.

They were twisted and gnarly, and with scarcely the semblance of the full meaty calf such as graces your leg and mine.

I remember he could not walk on the flat of his foot.