“This stirs one. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. “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. All houses of means had not only a maid but usually a whole staff of servants. 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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