” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. 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. ‘I fear you mistake, Emile. Will you stand by and watch me?" The contents of the trunk only thickened the fog. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all.
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