They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. ” She shook her head gently. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. She looked around the apartment for other people. It was Celeste’s idea. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. He filled his pipe slowly.
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