
The April mail had reached the Indian station, and Mary Ochterlony sat in the shaded bungalow with letters from England, a thimble turning on her finger, and heat pressing against the closed shutters. Mary, I cannot keep still. You step into this one-chapter preview with Mary Ochterlony at the center, where choices turn on the people, promises, and pressure already in the room. Trust it first, Hugh. The chapter closes on a continuation question rather than resolving the novel's larger arc.
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