Excerpt from Harvest: A Novel
Geoffrey Lathom was lounging in his long chair on the verandah after dinner, smoking that cigar to which men in India look forward all day. At his feet, almost, lay the jungle, breathing its own indescribable fragrance, seeming asleep, like a lover worn out with passion. Only seeming - for underneath the apparent hush Lathom's accustomed ear detected the stir of many jungle children. Little greyish squirrels fuss...
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