Run along, Jean of the Lazy A! This is an order from your chief." Jean wanted to cry.

She held the roses, that she almost hated for their very beauty and fragrance, close pressed in her arms, while she went away toward the machine.

Dewitt looked after her, thought she meant to obey him, and turned to greet a great man of the town who had been waiting for five minutes to speak to him.
Jean did not climb into the purple car and tell Bob to drive her to "the house." She walked past it without even noticing that it stood there, an aristocrat among the other machines parked behind the great studio that looked like a long, low warehouse.

She knew the straightest, shortest trail to the corrals, you may be sure of that.
She took that trail.
Pard was standing in a far corner under a shed, switching his tail methodically at the October crop of flies.

His head lay over the neck of a scrawny little buckskin, for which he had formed a sudden and violent attachment, and his eyes were half closed while he drowsed in lazy content.