I did not fall in love with the man who returned from India. I fell in love with the man who left, and the man who came back was a stranger wearing his face, which was worse than not having a face at all.
Thomas had been bright when we married. Bright and careless and full of opinions about everything from parliamentary reform to the proper way to steep tea. He was an army surgeon, or would be—he had just passed his examinations at Guy's Hospital when he volunteered for the Indian Medical Service, drawn by the promise of adventure and the salary, which was triple what he could earn in London. He...
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