I forget the particulars, but I know it was something very disagreeable. ’ ‘Get going, then,’ Trodger told his men. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. “Not a bit. It forbids—all sorts of things. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. I'm glad he's come to see me.
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