He was making a sketch for the figure of a man in a violent rage.

A sketch had been made before, but he was dissatisfied with it.

"No, that one was better...where is it?" He went back to his wife, and scowling, and not looking at her, asked his eldest little girl, where was that piece of paper he had given them? The paper with the discarded sketch on it was found, but it was dirty, and spotted with candle-grease.

Still, he took the sketch, laid it on his table, and, moving a little away, screwing up his eyes, he fell to gazing at it.