I have seen him set fire to his wigwam and smooth over the graves of his fathers... clap his hand in silence over his mouth, and take the last look over his fair hunting ground, and turn his face in sadness to the setting sun.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
No one ever saw all of him. It took me nearly four decades to allow my father his shadows, his reserve, to sit silently with him and not clamor for something more.
I think he had a strange, passionate devotion to the truth and a horror at what he saw going on.
You could hear him, literally, half a mile away when he opened up. He was at his peak then. He was, naturally, dying to get out of the place he was in, and he recorded for us his appeal for pardon to the governor.
I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew so well.
Father was very sympathetic, and if the hero of a romance was good or to be pitied, his eyes would fill with tears until he could not see.
His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.
What a couple. I'm consumed into ashes. And he's always raking up the ashes and setting them on fire again.
He was a horse of goodly countenance, rather expressive of vigilance than fire; though an unnatural appearance of fierceness was thrown into it by the loss of his ears, which had been cropped pretty close to his head.
I don't know whether there is anyone else at all who remembers my noble father with such sadness.
So great was the extremity of his pain and anguish, that he did not only sigh but roar.