Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. 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 kissed her ardently. He had done his best, pitching with determined fury that resulted in two outs. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English.
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