At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. "No, I shan't," replied Rachel, saucily. ‘I do not see at all. ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation.
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