Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. 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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