...He stood... with a twist in his dry face,

and a screw in his body, and his hat jerked over the bridge of his nose, and his hands tucked down into the bottoms of his pockets, and his whole sarcastic, ill-conditioned self peering out of one little corner of one little eye, like the concentrated essence of any number of ravens.

Dickens, The Cricket on the Hearth.

(no subject)