One night in Madrid I assisted at an Andalusian fete, all that was most typical, most Spanish.

We went to enjoy ourselves immensely.

Wine and more wine! And accordingly the bottle went round, with ever frowning brows, gloomy faces, abrupt gestures.
'Ole! come along here! This is the joy of the world!' but the joy did not appear in any part.

The men looked at one another with scowling brows, the women stamped their feet and clapped their hands with a stupid vacuity in their looks, as though the music had emptied their brains.

The dancers swayed like erect serpents, with their mouths open, their looks hard, grave, proud, unapproachable, like dancers who were performing a sacred rite.