Ностромо

           Nostromomadeasuperhumaneffort.“Itistime,Linda,wetwowerebetrothed,”hesaid,steadily,inhislevel,careless,unbendingtone.

           Sheputherhandintohisofferedpalm,loweringherhead,darkwithbronzeglints,uponwhichherfather’shandrestedforamoment.

           “Andsothesoulofthedeadissatisfied.”

           ThiscamefromGiorgioViola,whowentontalkingforawhileofhisdeadwife;whilethetwo,sittingsidebyside,neverlookedateachother.Thentheoldmanceased;andLinda,motionless,begantospeak.

           “EversinceIfeltIlivedintheworld,Ihavelivedforyoualone,Gian’Battista.Andthatyouknew!Youknewit...Battistino.”

           Shepronouncedthenameexactlywithhermother’sintonation.AgloomasofthegravecoveredNostromo’sheart.

           “Yes.Iknew,”hesaid.

           TheheroicGaribaldinosatonthesamebenchbowinghishoaryhead,hisoldsouldwellingalonewithitsmemories,tenderandviolent,terribleanddreary—solitaryontheearthfullofmen.

           AndLinda,hisbest-loveddaughter,wassaying,“IwasyourseversinceIcanremember.Ihadonlytothinkofyoufortheearthtobecomeemptytomyeyes.Whenyouwerethere,Icouldseenooneelse.Iwasyours.Nothingischanged.Theworldbelongstoyou,andyouletmeliveinit.”...