"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. 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. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence.
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