Jones leaned against the wall outside the bathing room, head back and one foot placed flat against the stones behind her. The corridor was darker than the bathing room, with only a few yak-butter lamps lit in the niches along the wall. It was nice to be warm. She wiggled her toes inside her felt boots. They were much warmer than the leather riding boots she had started out with in Bombay and she was wearing them all the time now. “Going native,” Pater would have said, disparagingly, with a laugh. He had been all for adopting practicality but at the same time he had been convinced, in a way Jones completely rejected, that as an Englishman he was inherently superior to the local people he met on his travels. However, his embracing of practicality meant that Jones was here wearing a shirt and
