I told her it was the end. 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. There are way-stations—even terminals. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Better even than these. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband.
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