Ностромо

           ThevenerableGaribaldinofelt,inhisownwords,“ayoungmanyet.”InonewayoranotheragooddealoftalkaboutRamirezhadreachedhimoflate;andhiscontemptanddislikeofthatmanwhoobviouslywasnotwhathissonwouldhavebeen,hadmadehimrestless.Hesleptverylittlenow;butforseveralnightspastinsteadofreading—oronlysitting,withMrs.Gould’ssilverspectaclesonhisnose,beforetheopenBible,hehadbeenprowlingactivelyallabouttheislandwithhisoldgun,onwatchoverhishonour.

           Linda,layingherthinbrownhandonhisknee,triedtosoothehisexcitement.RamirezwasnotinSulaco.Nobodyknewwherehewas.Hewasgone.Histalkofwhathewoulddomeantnothing.

           “No,”theoldmaninterrupted.“ButsonGian’Battistatoldme—quiteofhimself—thatthecowardlyesclavowasdrinkingandgamblingwiththerascalsofZapiga,overthereonthenorthsideofthegulf.Hemaygetsomeoftheworstscoundrelsofthatscoundrellytownofnegroestohelphiminhisattemptuponthelittleone....ButIamnotsoold.No!”

           Shearguedearnestlyagainsttheprobabilityofanyattemptbeingmade;andatlasttheoldmanfellsilent,chewinghiswhitemoustache.Womenhadtheirobstinatenotionswhichmustbehumoured—hispoorwifewaslikethat,andLindaresembledhermother.Itwasnotseemlyforamantoargue.“Maybe.Maybe,”hemumbled.

           Shewasbynomeanseasyinhermind.ShelovedNostromo.