He always ate his eggs fried, never scrambled.

You are a real Zorro. You ride in, rescue the fair damsel (Maartje), start massive fires and vanish — until the next perceived injustice.

[T]he three men followed, rushing into the hall, pausing, bringing with them into its stale and cloistral dimness something of the savage summer sunlight which they had just left.

The other side to this sunny gladness of natural love is his pity for their sufferings when their own mother's heart seems to freeze towards them.