The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. “They’re very good this year,” said Ann Veronica, avoiding controversial matter. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. But it's French manners, I suppose. “Poor old daddy! I wonder if he’ll spend much on the fatted calf?. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. He had hurt her.
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