Explore "C. I. D" by Talbot Mundy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Isn't that brute dead yet?"
Divinely authorized and autocratic sounds good, but it seems that liabilities invariably balance assets, somehow, even in the Rajah business. To begin with, it was monsoon weather. The marble and limestone palace, with its terraces, courtyards, gardens, summer -houses and lotus-ponds was one desolate splash made drearier by hurrying dark-gray clouds. There were creditors out on the palace steps, bemartyring themselves beneath umbrellas. The walls dripped clammy moisture. There was mildew on the hangings. The canaries in gilded cages were molting miserably and refused to sing. The Rajah had the bellyache, a headache, and a letter from a banker--a swine of a banker--a dirty, contemptible son of a low-caste shroff, who demanded his interest and "found it inconvenient" to lend another rupee. Nor was that all.