Ностромо

           ThecafewindowoftheAlbergod’ltaliaUnawasfullofsunburnt,whiskeredfacesofrailwaymen.Butattheotherendofthehouse,theendoftheSignoriInglesi,oldGiorgio,atthedoorwithoneofhisgirlsoneachside,baredhisbushyhead,aswhiteasthesnowsofHiguerota.Mrs.Gouldstoppedthecarriage.Sheseldomfailedtospeaktoherprotege;moreover,theexcitement,theheat,andthedusthadmadeherthirsty.Sheaskedforaglassofwater.Giorgiosentthechildrenindoorsforit,andapproachedwithpleasureexpressedinhiswholeruggedcountenance.Itwasnotoftenthathehadoccasiontoseehisbenefactress,whowasalsoanEnglishwoman—anothertitletohisregard.Heofferedsomeexcusesforhiswife.Itwasabaddaywithher;heroppressions—hetappedhisownbroadchest.Shecouldnotmovefromherchairthatday.

           Decoud,ensconcedinthecornerofhisseat,observedgloomilyMrs.Gould’soldrevolutionist,then,offhand—

           “Well,andwhatdoyouthinkofitall,Garibaldino?”

           OldGiorgio,lookingathimwithsomecuriosity,saidcivillythatthetroopshadmarchedverywell.One-eyedBarriosandhisofficershaddonewonderswiththerecruitsinashorttime.ThoseIndios,onlycaughttheotherday,hadgoneswingingpastindoublequicktime,likebersaglieri;theylookedwellfed,too,andhadwholeuniforms.“Uniforms!”herepeatedwithahalf-smileofpity.Alookofgrimretrospectstoleoverhispiercing,steadyeyes.