“Tell Miss Pigot I’m here.” I hand him my topi and enter the drawing room. Every surface is covered with something. Books and papers are scattered everywhere, and someone left a sewing basket. It’s as if Miss Pigot isn’t expecting visitors, yet she invited me to call at ten o’clock. Two men are wrestling a punkah fan into position.
“Be careful, sir,” Sajiva says before he leaves, “we’re putting up the punkah for the Hot Weather.”
I keep myself away from the workers, pick up local newspapers and put them down. Miss Pigot has a pianoforte that looks a bit like one in my brother’s house. I run my fingers over the dusty keys.
“Do you play, Reverend Hastie?” Miss Pigot asks. She’s standing in the doorway of another room, wearing a dark dress with a white collar. Her hair is pulled back. She might have been a pretty woman once. Now she has creases around her eyes and mouth.
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