He went on sorrowfully, “But he'll know. George always knows. He'll say, ‘You done it.’
‘Don't try to put nothing over on me.’ An' he'll say, ‘Now jus' for that you don't get to tend no rabbits!’”
Suddenly his anger arose. “God damn you,” he cried. “Why do you got to get killed? You ain't so little as mice.”
He picked up the pup and hurled it from him. He turned his back on it.
He sat bent over his knees and he whispered, “Now I won't get to tend the rabbits. Now he won't let me.”
He rocked himself back and forth in his sorrow. From outside came the clang of horseshoes on the iron stake, and then a little chorus of cries.
Lennie got up and brought the puppy back and laid it on the hay and sat down.
He stroked the pup again. “You wasn't big enough,” he said. “They tol' me and tol' me you wasn't. I didn't know you'd get killed so easy.”
He worked his fingers on the pup's limp ear. “Maybe George won't care,” he said.
“This here God damn little son-of-a-bitch wasn't nothing to George.”
Curley's wife came around the end of the last stall. She came very quietly, so that Lennie didn't see her.
She wore her bright cotton dress and the mules with the red ostrich feathers.
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