Both legs stuck out awkwardly.

Blood pumped regularly from between the horse’s front legs.

They whack-whacked the white horse on the legs and he kneed himself up.

Liz had good legs and always wore clean gingham aprons and Jim noticed that her hair was always neat behind.

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

Villalta, his hand up at the crowd and the bull roaring blood, looking straight at Villalta and his legs caving.

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.

The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

If it happened right down close in front of you, you could see Villalta snarl at the bull and curse him, and when the bull charged he swung back firmly like an oak when the wind hits it, his legs tight together, the muleta trailing and the sword following the curve behind.