You had better go to bed. Heliers. I want to tell every one. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. So I made haste and recovered. "What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you seem in a queer plight.
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