The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. She was mentally transported for an instant to the old castle in Herculis. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. After that consolations fled. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. It wasn’t. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.
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