“Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. 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. Lucy did not want to have to kill the mother, as she hated more than anything to kill women, no matter what their sins. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope.
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