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And so the tale of confessions and executions went on, until there was a pile of corpses lying before Napoleon's feet and the air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the expulsion of Jones. (7.26)
Well, here's your descriptive horror: Orwell doesn't linger on the action, but he lingers on the result—the visual (pile of bodies) and olfactory (the smell of blood). Gross.
The animals huddled about Clover, not speaking. The knoll where they were lying gave them a wide prospect across the countryside. Most of Animal Farm was within their view—the long pasture stretching down to the main road, the hayfield, the spinney, the drinking pool, the ploughed fields where the young wheat was thick and green, and the red roofs of the farm buildings with the smoke curling from the chimneys. It was a clear spring evening. The grass and the bursting hedges were gilded by the level rays of the sun. Never had the farm—and with a kind of surprise they remembered that it was their own farm, every inch of it their own property—appeared to the animals so desirable a place. (7.30)
We're going to go out on a limb and guess that very few of you reading this are homeowners, but take it from old Shmoop: when you have to buy your own toilet, you take a lot more pride in scrubbing the bowl.