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A foxhound rose from the moth-eaten leopard-skin by the hearth as they came in. Hazel stiffened. 'I canna-d-abear the hound-dogs, she said. 'Nasty snabbing things. 'Best dogs going. 'No, they kills the poor foxes. 'Vermin. Hazel's face became tense. She clenched her hands and advanced a determined chin. 'Keep yer tongue off our Foxy, or I unna stay! she said. 'Who's Foxy?
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