She pulled, he rose to his feet. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. "That's a good story, lad. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. 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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