The village headman, a weazened, leaf-brown old man, came out of his house, and there were shiko-ings. Flory sat down on the steps of the headman’s house and relighted his pipe. He was thirsty. “Is the water in your well good to drink, thugyi-min?” The headman reflected, scratching the calf of his left leg with his right big toenail. “Those who drink it, drink it, thakin. And those who do not drink it, do not drink it.” “Ah. That is wisdom.” The fat woman who had chased the pariah brought a blackened earthenware teapot and a handleless bowl, and gave Flory some pale green tea, tasting of
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