Ностромо

           IwentoutabruptlytoseekAntonia.Isawherinthegallery.AsIopenedthedoor,sheextendedtomeherclaspedhands.

           “‘Whataretheydoinginthere?’sheasked.

           “‘Talking,’Isaid,withmyeyeslookingintohers.

           “‘Yes,yes,but—’

           “‘Emptyspeeches,’Iinterruptedher.‘Hidingtheirfearsbehindimbecilehopes.TheyareallgreatParliamentariansthere—ontheEnglishmodel,asyouknow.’IwassofuriousthatIcouldhardlyspeak.Shemadeagestureofdespair.

           “ThroughthedoorIheldalittleajarbehindme,weheardDunJuste’smeasuredmouthingmonotonegoonfromphrasetophrase,likeasortofawfulandsolemnmadness.

           “‘Afterall,theDemocraticaspirationshave,perhaps,theirlegitimacy.Thewaysofhumanprogressareinscrutable,andifthefateofthecountryisinthehandofMontero,weought—’

           “Icrashedthedoortoonthat;itwasenough;itwastoomuch.TherewasneverabeautifulfaceexpressingmorehorroranddespairthanthefaceofAntonia.Icouldn’tbearit;Iseizedherwrists.

           “‘Havetheykilledmyfatherinthere?’sheasked.

           “Hereyesblazedwithindignation,butasIlookedon,fascinated,thelightinthemwentout.

           “‘Itisasurrender,’Isaid.AndIrememberIwasshakingherwristsIheldapartinmyhands.‘Butit’smorethantalk.YourfathertoldmetogooninGod’sname.