I will arise myself. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them.
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