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The Mintos' flat, although very bare, was very clean. Even when there was nothing to eat, there was water for scouring; and Mrs. Minto's hands were a sort of red-grey, hard and lined, all the little folds of the discoloured skin looking as if they had been bitten deep with acid that made them black.
She did not waken, but only stirred and murmured my name drowsily. I stood outside the tent and listened to her soft breathing. How helpless she was! How trusting! That turned the battle. I loved her madly, but never again dare I breathe a word of love to her so long as that shadow obscured her mind. But if sunlight succeeded shadow The fire had sunk to a heap of red-grey ashes.
A mile, or less, of tree-bordered road sloped gently from the Residency gate-posts to the walled City of Victory, backed by craggy, red-grey spurs of the Aravalli range, hidden almost in feathery heads of banyan, acacia, and neem a dusty, well-ordered oasis, holding its own against the stealthy oncoming of the desert.
"I'm Milsom," said the man in the doorway again. His clothes were grimed and dusty, his collar limp and soiled. There were two days' growth of red-grey stubble on his big jaw, and he bore himself like a man who was faint from lack of sleep. He walked unsteadily to the table and fell into a chair. "Where is van Heerden?" asked Beale, but Milsom shook his head.
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