" "Will you do it?" persisted Blueskin. Like a petulant child he snapped. He closed the door. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. "Tell Mr. . "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. Besides ——” She stopped short.
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