The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. I must have been very wound up. “Let me see,” he said. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him.
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