" "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. "However, I will be there. “I’d have to sneak out after everyone was asleep. Supposing you fetch what you can, and if you will allow me, I will see you off. " A little too much of the former, perhaps; as the windows being unglazed, the prisoners were subjected to severe annoyance from the weather and easterly winds. G'night, kids.
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