Randolph Stow


After the jolt at the dry creek bed, and the turning of the red road through the straggling myall, part of the homestead came in sight. And the traveller knew it. Or perhaps did not quite know it, since it was any homestead at all in that part of the country, such as he could have drawn from memory or built like Meccano in his mind. Yet something made him slow down the car, something at last made him pull up and wait, in the soft red dust by the rotting gate through which he could see down the beaten earth to the house.



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