The sun shone on his face.

His face was sweaty and dirty.

She liked it about his mustache.

He couldn’t hardly lift his arm.

He had to stop and wash his hands.

“You don’t know,” said his father.

Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.

He had changed since his New Haven years.

Nick turned his head away, smiling sweatily.

The bull could not make up his mind to charge.

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

Nick turned his head and looked down at Rinaldi.

“No. I haven’t any anaesthetic,” his father said.

Sometimes the bull only bumped him with his head.

He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door.

I never met anyone of his class who remembered him.

“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

She liked it about how white his teeth were when he smiled.

Young Buckley came in with his patrol from across the river.

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

He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before.

Maera lay still, his head on his arms, his face in the sand.

As he walked back along the halls he thought of Ag in his bed.

One of the white men sat on his cot with his head in his hands.

Nick watched his father’s hands scrubbing each other with the soap.

The other lay flat on his cot with a blanket wrapped around his head.

I grabbed his arm and he pulled loose and said, “Oh, leave me alone.”

He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass.

“Yes,” Maera said, “and who will kill his bulls after he gets cogida?”

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

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

In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took to wearing spectacles.

The picador kicked in his spurs, leaned forward and shook his lance at the bull.

Rinaldi, big backed, his equipment sprawling, lay face downward against the wall.

He lived upstairs above the blacksmith shop and took his meals at A. J. Smith’s.

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

The young Indian stopped and blew out his lantern and they all walked on along the road.

He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose⁠—

He thanked me very much, but his mind was already looking forward to walking over the pass.

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

When they fired the first volley he was sitting down in the water with his head on his knees.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed.

He was a good horseshoer and did not look much like a blacksmith even with his leather apron on.

She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty.

It was understood he would not drink, and he did not want to see his friends or anyone in the States.

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved it off and one of them got in to row.

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

“You ought to live in California⁠—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

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