"Oh, yes," said he, "they are baiting a bull down yonder." The ridge hid the bull-ring from us.

Dogs had been barking there when we seated ourselves, but the noise held no meaning for us.
It was the bull's roar which had startled Miss Plinlimmon.
"Pray let us go!" She gathered her shawl about her in a twitter.
"This is quite horrible!" "There's nothing to be afraid of," he assured her.

"The brute's tied fast enough.

Don't go, aunt: I want a word with you." He glowered at me again, and this time with meaning.

I saw that he wished me gone, and I moved to go.
"This is Harry's birthday.