Ностромо
Chapter 7
Atthetophepaused,broadshouldered,narrowhippedandsupple,lookingatthelargebed,likeawhitecouchofstate,withaprofusionofsnowylinen,amongstwhichthePadronasatunproppedandbowed,herhandsome,black-browedfacebentoverherchest.Amassofravenhairwithonlyafewwhitethreadsinitcoveredhershoulders;onethickstrandfallenforwardhalfveiledhercheek.Perfectlymotionlessinthatpose,expressingphysicalanxietyandunrest,sheturnedhereyesalonetowardsNostromo.
TheCapatazhadaredsashwoundmanytimesroundhiswaist,andaheavysilverringontheforefingerofthehandheraisedtogiveatwisttohismoustache.
“Theirrevolutions,theirrevolutions,”gaspedSenoraTeresa.“Look,Gian’Battista,ithaskilledmeatlast!”
Nostromosaidnothing,andthesickwomanwithanupwardglanceinsisted.“Look,thisonehaskilledme,whileyouwereawayfightingforwhatdidnotconcernyou,foolishman.”
“Whytalklikethis?”mumbledtheCapatazbetweenhisteeth.“Willyouneverbelieveinmygoodsense?ItconcernsmetokeeponbeingwhatIam:everydayalike.”
“Youneverchange,indeed,”shesaid,bitterly.“Alwaysthinkingofyourselfandtakingyourpayoutinfinewordsfromthosewhocarenothingforyou.”
Therewasbetweenthemanintimacyofantagonismascloseinitswayastheintimacyofaccordandaffection.HehadnotwalkedalongthewayofTeresa’sexpectations.
