“If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. The quarry had passed out into the open sea. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears.
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