Ностромо

           Icouldhateyou,Gian’Battista!”

           Helaughedloudly.Hervoiceenvelopedhimlikeacaress.Shebemoanedherfate,spreadingunconsciously,likeafloweritsperfumeinthecoolnessoftheevening,theindefinableseductionofherperson.WasitherfaultthatnobodyeverhadadmiredLinda?Evenwhentheywerelittle,goingoutwiththeirmothertoMass,sherememberedthatpeopletooknonoticeofLinda,whowasfearless,andchoseinsteadtofrightenher,whowastimid,withtheirattention.Itwasherhairlikegold,shesupposed.

           Hebrokeout—

           “Yourhairlikegold,andyoureyeslikeviolets,andyourlipsliketherose;yourroundarms,yourwhitethroat.”...

           Imperturbableintheindolenceofherpose,sheblusheddeeplyallovertotherootsofherhair.Shewasnotconceited.Shewasnomoreself-consciousthanaflower.Butshewaspleased.Andperhapsevenaflowerlovestohearitselfpraised.Heglanceddown,andadded,impetuously—

           “Yourlittlefeet!”

           Leaningbackagainsttheroughstonewallofthecottage,sheseemedtobasklanguidlyinthewarmthoftherosyflush.Onlyherloweredeyesglancedatherlittlefeet.

           “AndsoyouaregoingatlasttomarryourLinda.Sheisterrible.Ah!nowshewillunderstandbettersinceyouhavetoldheryouloveher.Shewillnotbesofierce.”

           “Chica!”saidNostromo,“Ihavenottoldheranything.”

           “Thenmakehaste.