The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him.
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