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. Wood. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. “You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze.
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