"I hope you are better." Her voice was low in pitch and of a velvety huskiness, seeming to come more from her chest than from her throat.
"Well, I'm some better," growled Annixter.

Then suddenly he demanded, "Where's that dog ?" A decrepit Irish setter sometimes made his appearance in and about the ranch house, sleeping under the bed and eating when anyone about the place thought to give him a plate of bread.
Annixter had no particular interest in the dog.

For weeks at a time he ignored its existence.

It was not his dog.

But to-day it seemed as if he could not let the subject rest.