Labordette hurried Nana but retraced his steps in order to show her a little man talking with Vandeuvres at some distance from the rest.
"Dear me, there's Price!" he said.
"Ah yes, the man who's mounting me," she murmured laughingly.
And she declared him to be exquisitely ugly.

All jockeys struck her as looking idiotic, doubtless, she said, because they were prevented from growing bigger.

This particular jockey was a man of forty, and with his long, thin, deeply furrowed, hard, dead countenance, he looked like an old shriveled-up child.

His body was knotty and so reduced in size that his blue jacket with its white sleeves looked as if it had been thrown over a lay figure.
"No," she resumed as she walked away, "he would never make me very happy, you know." A mob of people were still crowding the course, the turf of which had been wet and trampled on till it had grown black.

In front of the two telegraphs, which hung very high up on their cast-iron pillars, the crowd were jostling together with upturned faces, uproariously greeting the numbers of the different horses as an electric wire in connection with the weighing room made them appear.