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. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. And in this fact lay his danger. " "Why, what the devil's this?" vociferated Jonathan, looking up. Gerald, whose French was adequate from his military service abroad, was able to respond suitably to such remarks as the ladies addressed to him, but was less exercised by their fashionable dress than their decidedly careworn appearance. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1. 9.
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