The Dutch East Indies before World War II seemed like a huge wasteland. A shriveled race stood barefoot in the never-ending monsoon, with eyes as muddy as sand, staring blankly at the white man's hand holding the whip, with the whistle in his lips, not knowing whether he wanted to obey or not.
When Claude arrived at the Torrance mansion, Alois was still lazily engrossed in a long poem and refused to turn back.
Image of duration
Zolian's Rhyme
circuitous rhythm
"Good afternoon, sir. I am your new spoken English teacher. You can call me Claude. It is an honor to meet you."
He opened his eyes impatiently, his lake-blue gaze moistening the hot air.