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 was disquieted. You’re of age— you’re of age. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. Everything. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question.
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