Ностромо

           Thetwowings,shutup,crumbledbehindthenaileddoors,andwhatmaybedescribedasagroveofyoungorangetreesgrownintheunpavedpatioconcealedtheutterruinofthebackpartfacingthegate.Youturnedinfromthestreet,asifenteringasecludedorchard,whereyoucameuponthefootofadisjointedstaircase,guardedbyamoss-stainedeffigyofsomesaintlybishop,mitredandstaffed,andbearingtheindignityofabrokennosemeekly,withhisfinestonehandscrossedonhisbreast.Thechocolate-colouredfacesofservantswithmopsofblackhairpeepedatyoufromabove;theclickofbilliardballscametoyourears,andascendingthesteps,youwouldperhapsseeinthefirstsala,verystiffuponastraight-backedchair,inagoodlight,DonPepemovinghislongmoustachesashespelthisway,atarm’slength,throughanoldSta.Martanewspaper.Hishorse—astony-heartedbutperseveringblackbrutewithahammerhead—youwouldhaveseeninthestreetdozingmotionlessunderanimmensesaddle,withitsnosealmosttouchingthecurbstoneofthesidewalk.

           DonPepe,when“downfromthemountain,”asthephrase,oftenheardinSulaco,went,couldalsobeseeninthedrawing-roomoftheCasaGould.Hesatwithmodestassuranceatsomedistancefromthetea-table.Withhiskneesclosetogether,andakindlytwinkleofdrolleryinhisdeep-seteyes,hewouldthrowhissmallandironicpleasantriesintothecurrentofconversation.