The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. “It’s precious unromantic. She reflected before answering. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep.
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