’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Bring your liveralong?" "I sometimes wonder if I have any—if it isn't the hole where it was that aches.
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