Ellwood loved Brazil, but Gaunt couldn’t. He thought it beautiful—he admired it—but it filled him with yearning. He continually reminded himself that Thucydides, too, had been exiled, but nothing could lessen the grief he felt in the strangest places: in the shops, when they did not sell the tea he liked; or when it rained, and the rain was nothing like the cold, thin drizzle he knew and loved. He missed England as if it were a person.
