"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. 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. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then.
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