“Heavy clouds motored down from the North and the temperature fell ten degrees. The milky sun disappeared as if it had never existed and the rain forest appeared as a damp monochrome. There was an urban shape to the gray light, the sort of pall that wraps New York or Chicago on a foul autumn day. Sydney was late rising and stood quietly for a long time looking out the window of his bedroom at the street. The smell of the forest was as rank as compost; and then the wind came up and the drizzle be...gan. He watched schoolchildren troop up the street in the drizzle, their books in bright plastic satchels. They walked two by two, holding hands, as orderly as a column of infantry. He heard Mai moving about in the office below. She was singing softly to herself. He dressed slowly in the shadowless gray light, thinking that the room had improved since it belonged to Dacy. There was a picture of his daughter on the bureau and a poster of the Normandie that he'd bought at Orly. He owned a clock, a transistor radio, and a bright red bedspread he'd found at the market.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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