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He would die in the doorway.
Despair overcame him.
He was so bitter and sick at heart, so lonely and terrified that little dog's tears, like pimples, trickled down from his eyes, and at once dried up.
His injured side was covered with frozen, dried blood-clots and between them peeped the angry red patches of the scald.
All the fault of that vicious, thickheaded, stupid cook.
Sharik' she had called him . . . What a name to choose! Sharik is the sort of name for a round, fat, stupid dog that's fed on porridge, a dog with a pedigree, and he was a tattered, scraggy, filthy stray mongrel with a scalded side.
Across the street the door of a brightly lit store slammed and a citizen came through it.
Not a comrade, but a citizen, or even more likely - a gentleman.
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