What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. “No, I am alone,” she answered. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars.
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