The house was a gutted ruin
He smells black, Benbow thought; he smells like that black stuff that ran out of Bovary's mouth and down upon her bridal veil when they raised her head
It was almost dark. Popeye's gait had slowed. He walked now beside Benbow, and Benbow could see the continuous jerking of the hat from side to side as Popeye looked about with a sort of vicious cringing.
his right-hand coat pocket sagging compactly against his flank
Where the path from the spring joined the sandy byroad a tree had
Popeye's eyes looked like rubber knobs, like they'd give to the touch and then recover with the whorled smudge of the thumb on them
The cigarette wreathed its faint plume across Popeye's face
vicious depthless quality of stamped tin
