He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. “The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him. There was some one there. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars.
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