He ceased talking and sat for a moment longer, sloven and inert upon the shabby, patient mule, his face shadowed beneath his hat.

“Well,” he said, “I reckon I’ll get on. I ain’t had ne’er a bite of breakfast yet. I’ll bid yawl good morning.”

He put his mule into motion, the second mule following. He did not look back. But the youth did. He looked back at  the man on the bay horse, the cigarette burning in his hand, the plume of smoke faint and windless in the sunny silence, and at the woman on the chestnut, her arms lifted and her hands busy in her bright, cloudy hair; projecting, trying to project, himself, after the way of the young, toward that remote and inaccessible she, trying to encompass the vain and inarticulate instant of division and despair which, being young, was very like rage: rage at the lost woman, despair of the man in whose shape there walked the tragic and inescapable earth her ruin.

“She was crying,” he said, then he began to curse, savagely, without point or subject.

“Come on,” the older man said. He did not look back. “I reckon them hunt breakfast hoe-cakes will be about ready time we get home.”

From “Fox Hunt,” by William Faulkner

What a description! Literature at its best. The rage of honest men, country folk, clean heart, clean mind, and how they view and react to human filth in our society—the loss of a woman’s dignity and self-respect:   “He looked back at … her arms lifted and her hands busy in her bright, cloudy hair; projecting, trying to project, himself, after the way of the young, toward that remote and inaccessible she, trying to encompass the vain and inarticulate instant of division and despair which, being young, was very like rage: rage at the lost woman.”