“Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door.
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