Don’t leave me. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. “Will you help me?” he asked. . "I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump. .
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