He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. “We are the species,” said Miss Miniver, “men are only incidents. ” She said and began to pace the hard dirt. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. I’m not a lovesick boy.
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