She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly. Never had her father explained. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. ‘But I was not there. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. .
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