It thrilled him now.

There were no clubs here, no whips, none of the man-beasts whom he had first learned to distrust, and then to hate.
It was his misfortune--that quarter-strain of wolf; and the clubs, instead of subduing him, had added to the savagery that was born in him.
Men had been his worst enemies.

They had beaten him time and again until he was almost dead.

They called him "bad," and stepped wide of him, and never missed the chance to snap a whip over his back.

His body was covered with scars they had given him.
He had never felt kindness, or love, until the first night the woman had put her warm little hand on his head, and had snuggled her face close down to his, while Thorpe--her husband--had cried out in horror.