‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. She was unusually helpful at breakfast, and unselfish about the eggs: and then she went off to catch the train before her father’s. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. I know he is dead.
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