He said very quietly, as if talking to himself, ‘When I was a boy I used to sit at this window and look at the hills and the lake. Nothing has changed. I can still see a man’s profile in the shape of that peak over there; the same noises come up from the bazaar below; the same human ants move about. The toy yachts becalmed on the lake have not finished the race which started when I was a boy. The house has not changed, the garden hasn’t changed, the gardener hasn’t changed. These hill people grow no older. They treat me like a little boy. The coolies are the same, in the same rags, with the
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