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. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. She felt his crotch through his jeans. It’s not you—not a bit.
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