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. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. “Home, of course,” she answered. "Come along, my sly shaver. “You don’t want to go?” “No. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. Death belongs to God, young man.
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