The anticipation of that first blow dragged her as the butcher drags his sheep to the shambles.

Every glance she stole in their direction was reluctant; but all power of volition seemed to have left her.

The sight of those two half-stripped bodies, gleaming in the gas-light, had concentrated in her eyes.

At that moment they filled, obsessed her vision.
"There's not much style about them," muttered Traill.

He was leaning far out now, his elbows on the window-sill, his hands supporting his face--the attitude of concentrated interest.