Chapter 9
The rain had started during the previous evening. It was the noise of the torrent, like fists beating on the roof, which had kept George awake most of the night. And now, as he sipped his morning coffee, he looked out at the descending water as it fell into an expanding puddle at the edge of the veranda. The rain soaked the ground, flower heads drooped, leaves bowed under the weight. But it was different from the rain of England: muggier, clammier, indistinct from the moisture of humidity. But it was pleasant to be in a temperature that did not consume, draining the energy, like sap dripping from a tree. Quite easy to spend the remainder of the morning watching the mud form, listening to the splatters on the roof. But it was ten o’clock, nearly time to go and besides, the rain w
