He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. Quite right. " "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called.
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