Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. After all there are other things. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. Her pulses began to race. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully.
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