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"'That, said Cogan to himself, when his eyes couldn't make out the fluttering of her cloak any more 'that must be Valera. And he sat down to the hotel breakfast with a great appetite, thinking happily that by and by he would see her father again.
Cogan remembered a marble nymph he had once seen under a fountain in a square on a sunny morning in Rome, only the figure in Rome was a couple of hundred, or perhaps a couple of thousand, years old and needed washing, and being marble the water didn't cling so lingeringly.
A light touch, the stakes were in, and they were off. But to drive a knife through twelve or fourteen inches of bull gristle! Cogan pictured himself walking into a butcher's shop, picking out twelve or fourteen inches of tough gristle and driving a knife through it. He could do it, of course he could, or any man, but he would have to brace legs and back to get enough power in the stroke.
He'd seen twenty of them in his time, Martin had, and when he saw one of them coming now, he just ran up his iron shutters and let it roll by. Business was generally pretty good after a revolution. An easy-going sort of a man, Martin. He didn't even get mad with Cogan when he'd used up hours of his time and then only order ginger ale.
We have already told the tragic fate of the two adventurers Fitzstephen and de Cogan between whom the whole of Desmond was first partitioned by Henry II. But there were not wanting other claimants, either by original grant from the crown, by intermarriage with Irish, or Norman-Irish heiresses, or new-comers, favourites of John or of Henry III., or of their Ministers, enriched at the expense of the native population.
Ferrero turned to Cogan, now in English, 'Sir, a stranger? And Cogan said, 'Si, señor, a stranger from the United States. "And Ferrero said, 'Ah-h Americano cer-tain-ly, in the most charitable tone. 'Señor, I speak your language a leetla bit. It is true I lived one time in your contry a fine contry is U-ni-ted Stat-es two years yes, sir, surely. Listen, please.
It was a comfortable seat, except that every time a trolley passed he had to lift his feet high so he wouldn't be swept off his perch. "As he sat there, a group of well-muscled, well-set-up young fellows passed him. It was a cool, cheerful morning, and they appeared to be full of play. Everybody did that morning in Lima. Cogan knew these at once for some sort of athletes.
"Well, it was run by a Brooklyn Irishman named Martin Jackson, and Cogan said he remembered the shock he got when he first heard him talk. His Irish brogue had a Spanish accent do you get that? Well, he has nothing to do with the story, only this Cogan used to have great ideas about revolutions, and Martin, he knocked most of them out of him.
But the señora, Mr. Cogan, takes occasion to point the finger at me. "There is your mounted capeador, your brave toreador," she says to Luis, "and they are all alike." But Torellas is not so. My heart withers for him. You must understand, señor' Juan turned anew to Cogan 'that Torellas is as my own son. He tells me all.
From the seats behind him Cogan could hear, almost feel, their hot breaths. "The bull now stopped and studied this last enemy. The others had come at him in groups, but here was one all alone. "The bull stood with half-lowered head, weaving it from side to side, like when from behind the barrier he first appeared to the crowd. He eyed the red cape. It must have flamed like blood in the sun to him.
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