"You'd be hard to live with."
"Why, Roseanne?"
"Because you're so determined not to have an illusion."
"And you—"
"Go on. Say it. I'm so determined to have one."
"Are we quarreling? I can fix that. Come closer, Roseanne." Her face changed through delicate shades of feeling to tenderness and to intensity. Abruptly Hugo leaped to his feet.
The rhythmic thunder rode down upon them like the wind. A few yards away, head down, tail straight, the big bull charged over the ground like an avalanche. Roseanne lifted herself in time to see Hugo take two quick steps, draw back his fist, and hit the bull between the horns. It was a diabolical thing. The bull was thrown back upon itself. Its neck snapped loudly. Its feet crumpled; it dropped dead. Twenty feet to one side was a stone wall. Hugo picked up a hoof and dragged the carcass to the base of the wall. With his hand he made an indenture in the rocks, and over the face of the hollow he splashed the bull's blood. Then he approached Roseanne. The whole episode had occupied less than a minute.
She had hunched her shoulders together, and her face was pale. She articulated with difficulty. "The bull"—her hands twitched—"broke in here—and you hit him."
"Just in time, Roseanne."
"You killed him. Then—why did you drag him over there?"