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McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. “I had a faint idea once that things were as you say they are, but the affair of the ring—of the unexpected ring—puzzled me. Now there is none. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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