But she must not laugh. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune.
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