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He knew she had been weeping. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. “Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back. The man was my husband. He wanted her named Mary. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes.
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