"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. “I wonder if you give me a thought. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other.
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