She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 24-09-2024 20:35:13