CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic. “I hope you are going to Carey House.
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