She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. "I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired.
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