And indeed Tartar walked past the glass door opening to the garden, stiff, tawny, and black-muzzled as ever. He still seemed in bad humour. He was growling again, and whistling a half-strangled whistle, being an inheritance from the bulldog side of his ancestry.

And indeed Tartar walked past the garden door. He still seemed in bad humour: he was growling again, and wheezing.
