The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. “The Widgetts,” she said. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones.
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