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Chapter 8

           

           Helititandletthematchdropfromhispassivefingers.GiorgioViolalookedup,andsaidabruptly

           “Mysonwouldhavebeenjustsuchafineyoungmanasyou,Gian’Battista,ifhehadlived.”

           “What?Yourson?Butyouareright,padrone.Ifhehadbeenlikemehewouldhavebeenaman.”

           Heturnedhishorseslowly,andpacedonbetweenthebooths,checkingthemarealmosttoastandstillnowandthenforchildren,forthegroupsofpeoplefromthedistantCampo,whostaredafterhimwithadmiration.TheCompany’slightermensalutedhimfromafar;andthegreatlyenviedCapatazdeCargadoresadvanced,amongstmurmursofrecognitionandobsequiousgreetings,towardsthehugecircus-likeerection.Thethrongthickened;theguitarstinkledlouder;otherhorsemensatmotionless,smokingcalmlyabovetheheadsofthecrowd;iteddiedandpushedbeforethedoorsofthehigh-roofedbuilding,whenceissuedashuffleandthumpingoffeetintimetothedancemusicvibratingandshriekingwitharackingrhythm,overhungbythetremendous,sustained,hollowroarofthegombo.Thebarbarousandimposingnoiseofthebigdrum,thatcanmaddenacrowd,andthatevenEuropeanscannothearwithoutastrangeemotion,seemedtodrawNostromoontoitssource,whileaman,wrappedupinafaded,tornponcho,walkedbyhisstirrup,and,buffetedrightandleft,begged“hisworship”insistentlyforemploymentonthewharf.

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