" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. 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. 3. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread.
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