Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. 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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