w. A
gardener squatted on the lawn of Morgan House still planted with the plants Mrs.
Morgan had bought from England. He seemed unaware of what was going on;
stared out without curiosity or ambitionwithout worrydeveloping a quality
devoid of qualities to get him through this life.
The cook could see the fires burning below him and the men scattering. As
they crossed the heat vapor of the flamesthey seemed to ripple and blow like
mirages. Above was Kanchenjungasolidextraordinarya sight that for centuries
had delivered men their freedom and thinned clogged human hearts to joy. But of
course the cook couldn’t feel this now and he didn’t know if the sight of the
mountain could ever be the same to him. Clawing at his heart as if it were a door
was his panic—a scrabbling rodent creature.
How could anything be the same? The red of blood lay over the market road
in slick pools mingled with a yellow spread of dal someone
must have brought in anticipation of a picnic after the paradeand there were
flies on itleft behind odd slippersa sad pair of broken spectacleseven a tooth.
It was rather like the government warning about safety that appeared in the
cinema before the movie with the image of a man cycling to worka poor man
but with a wi,
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