He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Assured, if he remained much longer where he was, he would inevitably perish, Wood recommended himself to the protection of Heaven, and began his perilous course.
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