But Captain Mitchell's right-hand man--"invaluable for our work--a perfectly incorruptible fellow"-- after looking down critically at the ragged mozo, shook his head without a word in the uproar going on around.
The man fell back; and a little further on Nostromo had to pull up.

From the doors of the dance hall men and women emerged tottering, streaming with sweat, trembling in every limb, to lean, panting, with staring eyes and parted lips, against the wall of the structure, where the harps and guitars played on with mad speed in an incessant roll of thunder.
Hundreds of hands clapped in there; voices shrieked, and then all at once would sink low, chanting in unison the refrain of a love song, with a dying fall.

A red flower, flung with a good aim from somewhere in the crowd, struck the resplendent Capataz on the cheek.
He caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some time did not turn his head.

When at last he condescended to look round, the throng near him had parted to make way for a pretty Morenita, her hair held up by a small golden comb, who was walking towards him in the open space.
Her arms and neck emerged plump and bare from a snowy chemisette; the blue woollen skirt, with all the fullness gathered in front, scanty on the hips and tight across the back, disclosed the provoking action of her walk.

She came straight on and laid her hand on the mare's neck with a timid, coquettish look upwards out of the corner of her eyes.
"_Querido_," she murmured, caressingly, "why do you pretend not to see me when I pass ?" "Because I don't love thee any more," said Nostromo, deliberately, after a moment of reflective silence.
The hand on the mare's neck trembled suddenly.