“Where am I?” he muttered. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. .
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