I am sure it will be good, John, and I could eat anything. I don’t know what has come over me. Folks don’t like ’em. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. “Oh, you know,” she said.
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