E. Kneebone, Mrs. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Anyhow, that is how things are. "Constance—or, rather, Mrs.
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