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Foot comes down. A few specks of sand puffs up. It's probably hard to shout down a fellow who has about as much authority as yourself, but Scarlett makes a try of it.
The remaining two scraghounds licks Zivkas hand and sniffs the air and paws the dirt, clever sorts. Taking taste-samples. And then with a flick of a bushy tail, one of them begins pawing down towards the village . . .
( Which looms, heatshimmered, silent, quaint, in the distance... )
