A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. "The poor things!" The manager laughed. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. “I don’t think I shall. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. 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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