unwholesome face in complete repulsion, and wished Owen would not introduce her to such sordid individuals.
She looked at Owen. His nose had a sharp look, like a little boy who may make himself sick, but who is watching at the shambles with all his eyes, knowing it is forbidden.
Villiers, the younger generation, looked intense and abstract, getting the sensation. He would not even feel sick. He was just getting the thrill of it, without emotion, coldly and scientifically, but very intent.
And Kate felt a real pang of hatred against this Americanism which is coldly and unscrupulously sensational.
“Why doesn’t the horse move? Why doesn’t it run away from the bull?” she asked in repelled amazement, of Owen.
Owen cleared his throat.
“Didn’t you see? It was blindfolded,” he said.
“But can’t it smell the bull?” she asked.