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Chapter 9

           

           Thetinypieceofwoodflamedupquiteblindinglyattheendofhisfingers,raisedabovehisblinkingeyes.AconcentratedglarefellupontheleoninewhiteheadofoldGiorgioagainsttheblackfire-placeshowedhimleaningforwardinachairinstaringimmobility,surrounded,overhung,bygreatmassesofshadow,hislegscrossed,hischeekinhishand,anemptypipeinthecornerofhismouth.Itseemedhoursbeforeheattemptedtoturnhisface;attheverymomentthematchwentout,andhedisappeared,overwhelmedbytheshadows,asifthewallsandroofofthedesolatehousehadcollapseduponhiswhiteheadinghostlysilence.

           Nostromoheardhimstirandutterdispassionatelythewords

           “Itmayhavebeenavision.”

           “No,”hesaid,softly.“Itisnovision,oldman.”

           Astrongchestvoiceaskedinthedark

           “IsthatyouIhear,Giovann’Battista?”

           “Si,viejo.Steady.Notsoloud.”

           AfterhisreleasebySotillo,GiorgioViola,attendedtotheverydoorbythegood-naturedengineer-in-chief,hadreenteredhishouse,whichhehadbeenmadetoleavealmostattheverymomentofhiswife’sdeath.Allwasstill.Thelampabovewasburning.Henearlycalledouttoherbyname;andthethoughtthatnocallfromhimwouldeveragainevoketheanswerofhervoice,madehimdropheavilyintothechairwithaloudgroan,wrungoutbythepainasofakeenbladepiercinghisbreast.

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