“Violence won’t do it,” said Ann Veronica. \" She said. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. ” For a time there seemed no comfort for her even in Capes. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. Things you would laugh at. “I trust,” he said, “that you will recognize the justice of these conditions. . ” “You see I do. 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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