Above all, Westall was a devil, and must be put down.

For the rest, if he could have given words to experience, he would have said that since he began to go out poaching he had burst his prison and found himself.

A life which was not merely endurance pulsed in him.
The scent of the night woods, the keenness of the night air, the tracks and ways of the wild creatures, the wiles by which he slew them, the talents and charms of his dog Bruno--these things had developed in him new aptitudes both of mind and body, which were in themselves exhilaration.

He carried his dwarf's frame more erect, breathed from an ampler chest.

As for his work at the Court, he thought of it often with impatience and disgust.