‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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