He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. Her favor was sought beyond all women’s favors. ‘You are related to General Lord Charvill?’ ‘Monsieur le baron, he is my grandpére,’ she confirmed.
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