It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. He was detained. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. No matter. Lucy could see the resemblance of Martin to both of his parents as plain as day. “I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me.
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