Серце темряви

           GoodoldDutchman,VanShuyten.I’vesenthimonesmalllotofivoryayearago,sothathecan’tcallmealittlethiefwhenIgetback.Ihopehegotit.AndfortherestIdon’tcare.Ihadsomewoodstackedforyou.Thatwasmyoldhouse.Didyousee?’

           "IgavehimTowson’sbook.Hemadeasthoughhewouldkissme,butrestrainedhimself.‘TheonlybookIhadleft,andIthoughtIhadlostit,’hesaid,lookingatitecstatically.‘Somanyaccidentshappentoamangoingaboutalone,youknow.Canoesgetupsetsometimes—andsometimesyou’vegottoclearoutsoquickwhenthepeoplegetangry.’Hethumbedthepages.‘YoumadenotesinRussian?’Iasked.Henodded.‘Ithoughttheywerewrittenincipher,’Isaid.Helaughed,thenbecameserious.‘Ihadlotsoftroubletokeepthesepeopleoff,’hesaid.‘Didtheywanttokillyou?’Iasked.‘Oh,no!’hecried,andcheckedhimself.‘Whydidtheyattackus?’Ipursued.Hehesitated,thensaidshamefacedly,‘Theydon’twanthimtogo.’‘Don’tthey?’Isaidcuriously.Henoddedanodfullofmysteryandwisdom.‘Itellyou,’hecried,‘thismanhasenlargedmymind.’Heopenedhisarmswide,staringatmewithhislittleblueeyesthatwereperfectlyround."