The couple reappeared from behind the curtains, both visibly shaken. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head.
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