In
a curious way he seemed "on edge" all the time. His nostrils were
always distended, the muscles of his lean jaw were never lax, but
continually at tension, thrusting the chin forward with his teeth hard
together. His eyebrows were contracted, I think, even in his sleep,
and he looked at everything with a sort of quick, fierce, appearance
of scrutiny, though at that time I imagined that he saw very little.
He had a loud, rich voice, his pronunciation was clipped to a deadly
distinctness; he was so straight and his head so high in the air that
he seemed almost to tilt back. With his tall figure and black hair, he
was a boy who would have attracted attention, as they say, in any
crowd, so that he might have been taken for a young actor. His best
friend, a kind of Man Friday to him, was another young fellow from
Greenville, whose name was Joe Lane. I liked Joe. I'd known him? since
he was a boy. He was lazy and pleasant-looking, with reddish hair and
a drawling, low voice. He had a humorous, sensible expression, though
he was dissipated, I'd heard, but very gentle in his manners. I had a
talk with him under the trees of the college campus in the moonlight,
Commencement night.
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