She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. It had been cut down before life was extinct, but a ball from one of the soldiers had pierced his heart. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. If he awoke and caught you at it, there might be a set-back. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me.
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