In later years Turner sappearance was far from engaging. Short, stout, and bandylegged, his hat always brushed the wrong way, his sleeves long enough to hide the smallest and dirtiest hands on record, his nose hooked and prominent, his blue-gray eyes staring, his face as red as a boiled lobster, he looked like the captain of a river steamer. A ware of his unprepossessing aspect, Turner would never have his portrait taken, although several furtive sketches were made of him. In his youth, however, he once sat for a profile drawing, and painted three likenesses of himself, the most important of which, reproduced above, shows him at about twenty-seven.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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