Ностромо

           Therestofthenighthemadenosound.Thedarknessturnedtogrey,andonthecolourless,clear,glassydawnthejaggedsierrastoodoutflatandopaque,asifcutoutofpaper.

           TheenthusiasticandseveresoulofGiorgioViola,sailor,championofoppressedhumanity,enemyofkings,and,bythegraceofMrs.Gould,hotel-keeperoftheSulacoharbour,haddescendedintotheopenabyssofdesolationamongsttheshatteredvestigesofhispast.Herememberedhiswooingbetweentwocampaigns,asingleshortweekintheseasonofgatheringolives.Nothingapproachedthegravepassionofthattimebutthedeep,passionatesenseofhisbereavement.Hediscoveredalltheextentofhisdependenceuponthesilencedvoiceofthatwoman.Itwashervoicethathemissed.Abstracted,busy,lostininwardcontemplation,heseldomlookedathiswifeinthoselateryears.Thethoughtofhisgirlswasamatterofconcern,notofconsolation.Itwashervoicethathewouldmiss.Andherememberedtheotherchild—thelittleboywhodiedatsea.Ah!amanwouldhavebeensomethingtoleanupon.And,alas!evenGian’Battista—heofwhom,andofLinda,hiswifehadspokentohimsoanxiouslybeforeshedroppedoffintoherlastsleeponearth,heonwhomshehadcalledaloudtosavethechildren,justbeforeshedied—evenhewasdead!

           Andtheoldman,bentforward,hisheadinhishand,satthroughthedayinimmobilityandsolitude.Heneverheardthebrazenroarofthebellsintown.