He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. 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. Do you know that this becomes a habit?” “If you would only teach us all,” he murmured, “how to acquire it. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. "I thought I heard a noise. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out.
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