It looked at them in a strangely wistful way, after the manner of a dog; but in its wistfulness there was none of the dog affection.

It was a wistfulness bred of hunger, as cruel as its own fangs, as merciless as the frost itself.
It was large for a wolf, its gaunt frame advertising the lines of an animal that was among the largest of its kind.
"Stands pretty close to two feet an' a half at the shoulders," Henry commented.

"An' I'll bet it ain't far from five feet long." "Kind of strange colour for a wolf," was Bill's criticism.

"I never seen a red wolf before.

Looks almost cinnamon to me." The animal was certainly not cinnamon-coloured.