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Swiftly the light gathered itself together, painted for an instant the faces and the cart-wheels and the bullocks’ horns as red as blood. Then the night fell, changing the touch of the air, drawing a low, even haze, like a gossamer veil of blue, across the face of the country, and bringing out, keen and distinct, the smell of woodsmoke and cattle…


This is from Kim.

Kim and the lama are on the Grand Trunk Road, the great river of life that crosses northern India to this day, and – with all the other travellers – are settling down for the night, and lighting a little fire of dung.