هبطت اليد. وأخذت تقترب أكثر فأكثر. لامست أطراف شعره المنتصب، فانكمش تحتها. تبعته تضغط عليه أكثر فأكثر، وهو ينكمش ويكاد يرتعش. ومع ذلك تماسك. كانت عذاباً، تلك اليد التي تلمسه وتنتهك غريزته. لم يكن بوسعه أن ينسى في يومٍ واحد كلّ الشرّ الذي أصابه على أيدي الرجال.

“The hand descended. Nearer and nearer it came. It touched the ends of his upstanding hair. He shrank down under it. It followed down after him, pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering. He still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at the hands of men.”Jack London — White Fang (Arcadia Classics) (2015)