The woollen-draper looked at his watch. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. Maggot, laughing.
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