I told him.

Afterwards I saw him at the café.

Maera saw him and then I saw him.

I spoke to him about the Mantegnas in Milano.

Horthy’s men had done some bad things to him.

Nick lay back with his father’s arm around him.

Sometimes the bull only bumped him with his head.

The bull looking at him straight in front, hating.

The guards who had been holding him up dropped him.

“You go down after him,” said Maera, “he hates me.”

I never met anyone of his class who remembered him.

We waited till he got one leg over and then potted him.

Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain.

They were swearing at him and flopping the cape in his face.

The last I heard of him the Swiss had him in jail near Sion.

Ag wrote him many letters that he never got until after the armistice.

She hoped he would have a great career, and believed in him absolutely.

I wrote out for him where to eat in Milano and the addresses of comrades.

Once the horn went all the way through him and he felt it go into the sand.

He stopped stiff and one of the monos held his bridle and walked him forward.

She loved him as always, but she realized now it was only a boy and girl love.

He had no money, and they fed him behind the counter in railway eating houses.

They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water.

Finally the officer told the soldiers it was no good trying to make him stand up.

The first matador got the horn through his sword hand and the crowd hooted him out.

He was very shy and quite young and the train men passed him on from one crew to another.

He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened.

The revolutionary committee, he told me, would not allow him to go outside the palace grounds.

I went back to the hotel and Maera was on the balcony looking out to see if I’d be bringing him back.

One hot evening in Milan they carried him up onto the roof and he could look out over the top of the town.

He reported at Bologna, and I took him with me up into the Romagna where it was necessary I go to see a man.

When they operated on him she prepared him for the operating table; and they had a joke about friend or enema.

While they were strapping his legs together two guards held him up and the two priests were whispering to him.

The lieutenant kept riding his horse out into the fields and saying to him, “I’m drunk, I tell you, mon vieux.”

When they came toward him with the cap to go over his head Sam Cardinella lost control of his sphincter muscles.

Nick sat against the wall of the church where they had dragged him to be clear of machine gun fire in the street.

She liked it the way he walked over from the shop and often went to the kitchen door to watch for him to start down the road.

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.

He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.

Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward.

He tried five times and the crowd was quiet because it was a good bull and it looked like him or the bull and then he finally made it.

This increased Cohn’s distaste for boxing, but it gave him a certain satisfaction of some strange sort, and it certainly improved his nose.

So I went down and caught up with them and grabbed him while he was crouched down waiting for the music to break loose and said, “Come on, Luis.”

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him⁠—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office.

Then he cursed the bull, flopped the muleta at him, and swung back from the charge, his feet firm, the muleta curving and at each swing the crowd roaring.

Some men picked Maera up and started to run with him toward the barriers through the gate out the passage way around under the grandstand to the infirmary.

They were all about the hospital, and how much she loved him and how it was impossible to get along without him and how terrible it was missing him at night.

The horse’s entrails hung down in a blue bunch and swung backward and forward as he began to canter, the monos whacking him on the back of his legs with the rods.

He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone.

Finally the bull was too tired from so much sticking and folded his knees and lay down and one of the cuadrilla leaned out over his neck and killed him with the puntillo.