She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. She did not wait, but grabbed up the lantern and slid into the passage, calling to them to hurry. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers.
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