Read "Angel" by B.M. Croker online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
SEVERAL guests from the station were added to the camp dinner table, the Commissioner's Khansamah contrived an impressive _mènu_, and a dazzling display of plate and flowers. The wine was incomparable-though the host greatly preferred Scotch whisky-and everything and everyone contributed to a pleasant evening, except Donald Gordon, who, as usual, devoured the meal in silence, and Mrs. Gascoigne, who was depressingly dumb, and most startlingly pale. In answer to enquiries, she pleaded a bad headache, and after the ladies had risen, departed to her tent.
The camp moved on the following morning, and as Angel rode past the insignificant little club, she gazed at it with a curious expression on her face. To her, it represented the temple of truth. Well, after all-truth was everything, she said to herself,-nothing else was of the same value, hopes and fears, rights and wrongs, shrivelled to dust, in the presence of truth.