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Chapter 10

"It has set at last," said Nina to her mother pointing towards the hills
behind which the sun had sunk. "Listen, mother, I am going now to
Bulangi's creek, and if I should never return--"

She interrupted herself, and something like doubt dimmed for a moment the
fire of suppressed exaltation that had glowed in her eyes and had
illuminated the serene impassiveness of her features with a ray of eager
life during all that long day of excitement--the day of joy and anxiety,
of hope and terror, of vague grief and indistinct delight. While the sun
shone with that dazzling light in which her love was born and grew till
it possessed her whole being, she was kept firm in her unwavering resolve
by the mysterious whisperings of desire which filled her heart with
impatient longing for the darkness that would mean the end of danger and
strife, the beginning of happiness, the fulfilling of love, the
completeness of life. It had set at last! The short tropical twilight
went out before she could draw the long breath of relief; and now the
sudden darkness seemed to be full of menacing voices calling upon her to
rush headlong into the unknown; to be true to her own impulses, to give
herself up to the passion she had evoked and shared. He was waiting! In
the solitude of the secluded clearing, in the vast silence of the forest
he was waiting alone, a fugitive in fear of his life. Indifferent to his
danger he was waiting for her. It was for her only that he had come; and
now as the time approached when he should have his reward, she asked
herself with dismay what meant that chilling doubt of her own will and of
her own desire? With an effort she shook off the fear of the passing
weakness. He should have his reward. Her woman's love and her woman's
honour overcame the faltering distrust of that unknown future waiting for
her in the darkness of the river.

"No, you will not return," muttered Mrs. Almayer, prophetically.

"Without you he will not go, and if he remains here--" She waved her
hand towards the lights of "Almayer's Folly," and the unfinished sentence
died out in a threatening murmur.

The two women had met behind the house, and now were walking slowly
together towards the creek where all the canoes were moored. Arrived at
the fringe of bushes they stopped by a common impulse, and Mrs. Almayer,
laying her hand on her daughter's arm, tried in vain to look close into
the girl's averted face. When she attempted to speak her first words
were lost in a stifled sob that sounded strangely coming from that woman
who, of all human passions, seemed to know only those of anger and hate.

"You are going away to be a great Ranee," she said at last, in a voice
that was steady enough now, "and if you be wise you shall have much power
that will endure many days, and even last into your old age. What have I
been? A slave all my life, and I have cooked rice for a man who had no
courage and no wisdom. Hai! I! even I, was given in gift by a chief and
a warrior to a man that was neither. Hai! Hai!"

She wailed to herself softly, lamenting the lost possibilities of murder
and mischief that could have fallen to her lot had she been mated with a
congenial spirit. Nina bent down over Mrs. Almayer's slight form and
scanned attentively, under the stars that had rushed out on the black sky
and now hung breathless over that strange parting, her mother's
shrivelled features, and looked close into the sunken eyes that could see
into her own dark future by the light of a long and a painful experience.
Again she felt herself fascinated, as of old, by her mother's exalted
mood and by the oracular certainty of expression which, together with her
fits of violence, had contributed not a little to the reputation for
witchcraft she enjoyed in the settlement.

* * * * *

"I was a slave, and you shall be a queen," went on Mrs. Almayer, looking
straight before her; "but remember men's strength and their weakness.
Tremble before his anger, so that he may see your fear in the light of
day; but in your heart you may laugh, for after sunset he is your slave."

"A slave! He! The master of life! You do not know him, mother."

Mrs. Almayer condescended to laugh contemptuously.

"You speak like a fool of a white woman," she exclaimed. "What do you
know of men's anger and of men's love? Have you watched the sleep of men
weary of dealing death? Have you felt about you the strong arm that
could drive a kriss deep into a beating heart? Yah! you are a white
woman, and ought to pray to a woman-god!"

"Why do you say this? I have listened to your words so long that I have
forgotten my old life. If I was white would I stand here, ready to go?
Mother, I shall return to the house and look once more at my father's
face."

"No!" said Mrs. Almayer, violently. "No, he sleeps now the sleep of gin;
and if you went back he might awake and see you. No, he shall never see
you. When the terrible old man took you away from me when you were
little, you remember--"

"It was such a long time ago," murmured Nina.

"I remember," went on Mrs. Almayer, fiercely. "I wanted to look at your
face again. He said no! I heard you cry and jumped into the river. You
were his daughter then; you are my daughter now. Never shall you go back
to that house; you shall never cross this courtyard again. No! no!"

Her voice rose almost to a shout. On the other side of the creek there
was a rustle in the long grass. The two women heard it, and listened for
a while in startled silence. "I shall go," said Nina, in a cautious but
intense whisper. "What is your hate or your revenge to me?"

She moved towards the house, Mrs. Almayer clinging to her and trying to
pull her back.

"Stop, you shall not go!" she gasped.

Nina pushed away her mother impatiently and gathered up her skirts for a
quick run, but Mrs. Almayer ran forward and turned round, facing her
daughter with outstretched arms.

"If you move another step," she exclaimed, breathing quickly, "I shall
cry out. Do you see those lights in the big house? There sit two white
men, angry because they cannot have the blood of the man you love. And
in those dark houses," she continued, more calmly as she pointed towards
the settlement, "my voice could wake up men that would lead the Orang
Blanda soldiers to him who is waiting--for you."

She could not see her daughter's face, but the white figure before her
stood silent and irresolute in the darkness. Mrs. Almayer pursued her
advantage.

"Give up your old life! Forget!" she said in entreating tones. "Forget
that you ever looked at a white face; forget their words; forget their
thoughts. They speak lies. And they think lies because they despise us
that are better than they are, but not so strong. Forget their
friendship and their contempt; forget their many gods. Girl, why do you
want to remember the past when there is a warrior and a chief ready to
give many lives--his own life--for one of your smiles?"

While she spoke she pushed gently her daughter towards the canoes, hiding
her own fear, anxiety, and doubt under the flood of passionate words that
left Nina no time to think and no opportunity to protest, even if she had
wished it. But she did not wish it now. At the bottom of that passing
desire to look again at her father's face there was no strong affection.
She felt no scruples and no remorse at leaving suddenly that man whose
sentiment towards herself she could not understand, she could not even
see. There was only an instinctive clinging to old life, to old habits,
to old faces; that fear of finality which lurks in every human breast and
prevents so many heroisms and so many crimes. For years she had stood
between her mother and her father, the one so strong in her weakness, the
other so weak where he could have been strong. Between those two beings
so dissimilar, so antagonistic, she stood with mute heart wondering and
angry at the fact of her own existence. It seemed so unreasonable, so
humiliating to be flung there in that settlement and to see the days rush
by into the past, without a hope, a desire, or an aim that would justify
the life she had to endure in ever-growing weariness. She had little
belief and no sympathy for her father's dreams; but the savage ravings of
her mother chanced to strike a responsive chord, deep down somewhere in
her despairing heart; and she dreamed dreams of her own with the
persistent absorption of a captive thinking of liberty within the walls
of his prison cell. With the coming of Dain she found the road to
freedom by obeying the voice of the new-born impulses, and with surprised
joy she thought she could read in his eyes the answer to all the
questionings of her heart. She understood now the reason and the aim of
life; and in the triumphant unveiling of that mystery she threw away
disdainfully her past with its sad thoughts, its bitter feelings, and its
faint affections, now withered and dead in contact with her fierce
passion.

Mrs. Almayer unmoored Nina's own canoe and, straightening herself
painfully, stood, painter in hand, looking at her daughter.

"Quick," she said; "get away before the moon rises, while the river is
dark. I am afraid of Abdulla's slaves. The wretches prowl in the night
often, and might see and follow you. There are two paddles in the
canoe."

Nina approached her mother and hesitatingly touched lightly with her lips
the wrinkled forehead. Mrs. Almayer snorted contemptuously in protest
against that tenderness which she, nevertheless, feared could be
contagious.

"Shall I ever see you again, mother?" murmured Nina.

"No," said Mrs. Almayer, after a short silence. "Why should you return
here where it is my fate to die? You will live far away in splendour and
might. When I hear of white men driven from the islands, then I shall
know that you are alive, and that you remember my words."

"I shall always remember," returned Nina, earnestly; "but where is my
power, and what can I do?"

"Do not let him look too long in your eyes, nor lay his head on your
knees without reminding him that men should fight before they rest. And
if he lingers, give him his kriss yourself and bid him go, as the wife of
a mighty prince should do when the enemies are near. Let him slay the
white men that come to us to trade, with prayers on their lips and loaded
guns in their hands. Ah!"--she ended with a sigh--"they are on every
sea, and on every shore; and they are very many!"

She swung the bow of the canoe towards the river, but did not let go the
gunwale, keeping her hand on it in irresolute thoughtfulness.

Nina put the point of the paddle against the bank, ready to shove off
into the stream.

"What is it, mother?" she asked, in a low voice. "Do you hear anything?"

"No," said Mrs. Almayer, absently. "Listen, Nina," she continued,
abruptly, after a slight pause, "in after years there will be other
women--"

A stifled cry in the boat interrupted her, and the paddle rattled in the
canoe as it slipped from Nina's hands, which she put out in a protesting
gesture. Mrs. Almayer fell on her knees on the bank and leaned over the
gunwale so as to bring her own face close to her daughter's.

"There will be other women," she repeated firmly; "I tell you that,
because you are half white, and may forget that he is a great chief, and
that such things must be. Hide your anger, and do not let him see on
your face the pain that will eat your heart. Meet him with joy in your
eyes and wisdom on your lips, for to you he will turn in sadness or in
doubt. As long as he looks upon many women your power will last, but
should there be one, one only with whom he seems to forget you, then--"

"I could not live," exclaimed Nina, covering her face with both her
hands. "Do not speak so, mother; it could not be."

"Then," went on Mrs. Almayer, steadily, "to that woman, Nina, show no
mercy."

She moved the canoe down towards the stream by the gunwale, and gripped
it with both her hands, the bow pointing into the river.

"Are you crying?" she asked sternly of her daughter, who sat still with
covered face. "Arise, and take your paddle, for he has waited long
enough. And remember, Nina, no mercy; and if you must strike, strike
with a steady hand."

She put out all her strength, and swinging her body over the water, shot
the light craft far into the stream. When she recovered herself from the
effort she tried vainly to catch a glimpse of the canoe that seemed to
have dissolved suddenly into the white mist trailing over the heated
waters of the Pantai. After listening for a while intently on her knees,
Mrs. Almayer rose with a deep sigh, while two tears wandered slowly down
her withered cheeks. She wiped them off quickly with a wisp of her grey
hair as if ashamed of herself, but could not stifle another loud sigh,
for her heart was heavy and she suffered much, being unused to tender
emotions. This time she fancied she had heard a faint noise, like the
echo of her own sigh, and she stopped, straining her ears to catch the
slightest sound, and peering apprehensively towards the bushes near her.

"Who is there?" she asked, in an unsteady voice, while her imagination
peopled the solitude of the riverside with ghost-like forms. "Who is
there?" she repeated faintly.

There was no answer: only the voice of the river murmuring in sad
monotone behind the white veil seemed to swell louder for a moment, to
die away again in a soft whisper of eddies washing against the bank.

Mrs. Almayer shook her head as if in answer to her own thoughts, and
walked quickly away from the bushes, looking to the right and left
watchfully. She went straight towards the cooking-shed, observing that
the embers of the fire there glowed more brightly than usual, as if
somebody had been adding fresh fuel to the fires during the evening. As
she approached, Babalatchi, who had been squatting in the warm glow, rose
and met her in the shadow outside.

"Is she gone?" asked the anxious statesman, hastily.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Almayer. "What are the white men doing? When did
you leave them?"

"They are sleeping now, I think. May they never wake!" exclaimed
Babalatchi, fervently. "Oh! but they are devils, and made much talk and
trouble over that carcase. The chief threatened me twice with his hand,
and said he would have me tied up to a tree. Tie me up to a tree! Me!"
he repeated, striking his breast violently.

Mrs. Almayer laughed tauntingly.

"And you salaamed and asked for mercy. Men with arms by their side acted
otherwise when I was young."

"And where are they, the men of your youth? You mad woman!" retorted
Babalatchi, angrily. "Killed by the Dutch. Aha! But I shall live to
deceive them. A man knows when to fight and when to tell peaceful lies.
You would know that if you were not a woman."

But Mrs. Almayer did not seem to hear him. With bent body and
outstretched arm she appeared to be listening to some noise behind the
shed.

"There are strange sounds," she whispered, with evident alarm. "I have
heard in the air the sounds of grief, as of a sigh and weeping. That was
by the riverside. And now again I heard--"

"Where?" asked Babalatchi, in an altered voice. "What did you hear?"

"Close here. It was like a breath long drawn. I wish I had burnt the
paper over the body before it was buried."

"Yes," assented Babalatchi. "But the white men had him thrown into a
hole at once. You know he found his death on the river," he added
cheerfully, "and his ghost may hail the canoes, but would leave the land
alone."

Mrs. Almayer, who had been craning her neck to look round the corner of
the shed, drew back her head.

"There is nobody there," she said, reassured. "Is it not time for the
Rajah war-canoe to go to the clearing?"

"I have been waiting for it here, for I myself must go," explained
Babalatchi. "I think I will go over and see what makes them late. When
will you come? The Rajah gives you refuge."

"I shall paddle over before the break of day. I cannot leave my dollars
behind," muttered Mrs. Almayer.

They separated. Babalatchi crossed the courtyard towards the creek to
get his canoe, and Mrs. Almayer walked slowly to the house, ascended the
plankway, and passing through the back verandah entered the passage
leading to the front of the house; but before going in she turned in the
doorway and looked back at the empty and silent courtyard, now lit up by
the rays of the rising moon. No sooner she had disappeared, however,
than a vague shape flitted out from amongst the stalks of the banana
plantation, darted over the moonlit space, and fell in the darkness at
the foot of the verandah. It might have been the shadow of a driving
cloud, so noiseless and rapid was its passage, but for the trail of
disturbed grass, whose feathery heads trembled and swayed for a long time
in the moonlight before they rested motionless and gleaming, like a
design of silver sprays embroidered on a sombre background.

Mrs. Almayer lighted the cocoanut lamp, and lifting cautiously the red
curtain, gazed upon her husband, shading the light with her hand.

Almayer, huddled up in the chair, one of his arms hanging down, the other
thrown across the lower part of his face as if to ward off an invisible
enemy, his legs stretched straight out, slept heavily, unconscious of the
unfriendly eyes that looked upon him in disparaging criticism. At his
feet lay the overturned table, amongst a wreck of crockery and broken
bottles. The appearance as of traces left by a desperate struggle was
accentuated by the chairs, which seemed to have been scattered violently
all over the place, and now lay about the verandah with a lamentable
aspect of inebriety in their helpless attitudes. Only Nina's big rocking-
chair, standing black and motionless on its high runners, towered above
the chaos of demoralised furniture, unflinchingly dignified and patient,
waiting for its burden.

With a last scornful look towards the sleeper, Mrs. Almayer passed behind
the curtain into her own room. A couple of bats, encouraged by the
darkness and the peaceful state of affairs, resumed their silent and
oblique gambols above Almayer's head, and for a long time the profound
quiet of the house was unbroken, save for the deep breathing of the
sleeping man and the faint tinkle of silver in the hands of the woman
preparing for flight. In the increasing light of the moon that had risen
now above the night mist, the objects on the verandah came out strongly
outlined in black splashes of shadow with all the uncompromising ugliness
of their disorder, and a caricature of the sleeping Almayer appeared on
the dirty whitewash of the wall behind him in a grotesquely exaggerated
detail of attitude and feature enlarged to a heroic size. The
discontented bats departed in quest of darker places, and a lizard came
out in short, nervous rushes, and, pleased with the white table-cloth,
stopped on it in breathless immobility that would have suggested sudden
death had it not been for the melodious call he exchanged with a less
adventurous friend hiding amongst the lumber in the courtyard. Then the
boards in the passage creaked, the lizard vanished, and Almayer stirred
uneasily with a sigh: slowly, out of the senseless annihilation of
drunken sleep, he was returning, through the land of dreams, to waking
consciousness. Almayer's head rolled from shoulder to shoulder in the
oppression of his dream; the heavens had descended upon him like a heavy
mantle, and trailed in starred folds far under him. Stars above, stars
all round him; and from the stars under his feet rose a whisper full of
entreaties and tears, and sorrowful faces flitted amongst the clusters of
light filling the infinite space below. How escape from the importunity
of lamentable cries and from the look of staring, sad eyes in the faces
which pressed round him till he gasped for breath under the crushing
weight of worlds that hung over his aching shoulders? Get away! But
how? If he attempted to move he would step off into nothing, and perish
in the crashing fall of that universe of which he was the only support.
And what were the voices saying? Urging him to move! Why? Move to
destruction! Not likely! The absurdity of the thing filled him with
indignation. He got a firmer foothold and stiffened his muscles in
heroic resolve to carry his burden to all eternity. And ages passed in
the superhuman labour, amidst the rush of circling worlds; in the
plaintive murmur of sorrowful voices urging him to desist before it was
too late--till the mysterious power that had laid upon him the giant task
seemed at last to seek his destruction. With terror he felt an
irresistible hand shaking him by the shoulder, while the chorus of voices
swelled louder into an agonised prayer to go, go before it is too late.
He felt himself slipping, losing his balance, as something dragged at his
legs, and he fell. With a faint cry he glided out of the anguish of
perishing creation into an imperfect waking that seemed to be still under
the spell of his dream.

"What? What?" he murmured sleepily, without moving or opening his eyes.
His head still felt heavy, and he had not the courage to raise his
eyelids. In his ears there still lingered the sound of entreating
whisper.--"Am I awake?--Why do I hear the voices?" he argued to himself,
hazily.--"I cannot get rid of the horrible nightmare yet.--I have been
very drunk.--What is that shaking me? I am dreaming yet--I must open my
eyes and be done with it. I am only half awake, it is evident."

He made an effort to shake off his stupor and saw a face close to his,
glaring at him with staring eyeballs. He closed his eyes again in amazed
horror and sat up straight in the chair, trembling in every limb. What
was this apparition?--His own fancy, no doubt.--His nerves had been much
tried the day before--and then the drink! He would not see it again if
he had the courage to look.--He would look directly.--Get a little
steadier first.--So.--Now.

He looked. The figure of a woman standing in the steely light, her hands
stretched forth in a suppliant gesture, confronted him from the far-off
end of the verandah; and in the space between him and the obstinate
phantom floated the murmur of words that fell on his ears in a jumble of
torturing sentences, the meaning of which escaped the utmost efforts of
his brain. Who spoke the Malay words? Who ran away? Why too late--and
too late for what? What meant those words of hate and love mixed so
strangely together, the ever-recurring names falling on his ears again
and again--Nina, Dain; Dain, Nina? Dain was dead, and Nina was sleeping,
unaware of the terrible experience through which he was now passing. Was
he going to be tormented for ever, sleeping or waking, and have no peace
either night or day? What was the meaning of this?

He shouted the last words aloud. The shadowy woman seemed to shrink and
recede a little from him towards the doorway, and there was a shriek.
Exasperated by the incomprehensible nature of his torment, Almayer made a
rush upon the apparition, which eluded his grasp, and he brought up
heavily against the wall. Quick as lightning he turned round and pursued
fiercely the mysterious figure fleeing from him with piercing shrieks
that were like fuel to the flames of his anger. Over the furniture,
round the overturned table, and now he had it cornered behind Nina's
chair. To the left, to the right they dodged, the chair rocking madly
between them, she sending out shriek after shriek at every feint, and he
growling meaningless curses through his hard set teeth. "Oh! the
fiendish noise that split his head and seemed to choke his breath.--It
would kill him.--It must be stopped!" An insane desire to crush that
yelling thing induced him to cast himself recklessly over the chair with
a desperate grab, and they came down together in a cloud of dust amongst
the splintered wood. The last shriek died out under him in a faint
gurgle, and he had secured the relief of absolute silence.

He looked at the woman's face under him. A real woman! He knew her. By
all that is wonderful! Taminah! He jumped up ashamed of his fury and
stood perplexed, wiping his forehead. The girl struggled to a kneeling
posture and embraced his legs in a frenzied prayer for mercy.

"Don't be afraid," he said, raising her. "I shall not hurt you. Why do
you come to my house in the night? And if you had to come, why not go
behind the curtain where the women sleep?"

"The place behind the curtain is empty," gasped Taminah, catching her
breath between the words. "There are no women in your house any more,
Tuan. I saw the old Mem go away before I tried to wake you. I did not
want your women, I wanted you."

"Old Mem!" repeated Almayer. "Do you mean my wife?"

She nodded her head.

"But of my daughter you are not afraid?" said Almayer.

"Have you not heard me?" she exclaimed. "Have I not spoken for a long
time when you lay there with eyes half open? She is gone too."

"I was asleep. Can you not tell when a man is sleeping and when awake?"

"Sometimes," answered Taminah in a low voice; "sometimes the spirit
lingers close to a sleeping body and may hear. I spoke a long time
before I touched you, and I spoke softly for fear it would depart at a
sudden noise and leave you sleeping for ever. I took you by the shoulder
only when you began to mutter words I could not understand. Have you not
heard, then, and do you know nothing?"

"Nothing of what you said. What is it? Tell again if you want me to
know."

He took her by the shoulder and led her unresisting to the front of the
verandah into a stronger light. She wrung her hands with such an
appearance of grief that he began to be alarmed.

"Speak," he said. "You made noise enough to wake even dead men. And yet
nobody living came," he added to himself in an uneasy whisper. "Are you
mute? Speak!" he repeated.

In a rush of words which broke out after a short struggle from her
trembling lips she told him the tale of Nina's love and her own jealousy.
Several times he looked angrily into her face and told her to be silent;
but he could not stop the sounds that seemed to him to run out in a hot
stream, swirl about his feet, and rise in scalding waves about him,
higher, higher, drowning his heart, touching his lips with a feel of
molten lead, blotting out his sight in scorching vapour, closing over his
head, merciless and deadly. When she spoke of the deception as to Dain's
death of which he had been the victim only that day, he glanced again at
her with terrible eyes, and made her falter for a second, but he turned
away directly, and his face suddenly lost all expression in a stony stare
far away over the river. Ah! the river! His old friend and his old
enemy, speaking always with the same voice as he runs from year to year
bringing fortune or disappointment happiness or pain, upon the same
varying but unchanged surface of glancing currents and swirling eddies.
For many years he had listened to the passionless and soothing murmur
that sometimes was the song of hope, at times the song of triumph, of
encouragement; more often the whisper of consolation that spoke of better
days to come. For so many years! So many years! And now to the
accompaniment of that murmur he listened to the slow and painful beating
of his heart. He listened attentively, wondering at the regularity of
its beats. He began to count mechanically. One, two. Why count? At
the next beat it must stop. No heart could suffer so and beat so
steadily for long. Those regular strokes as of a muffled hammer that
rang in his ears must stop soon. Still beating unceasing and cruel. No
man can bear this; and is this the last, or will the next one be the
last?--How much longer? O God! how much longer? His hand weighed
heavier unconsciously on the girl's shoulder, and she spoke the last
words of her story crouching at his feet with tears of pain and shame and
anger. Was her revenge to fail her? This white man was like a senseless
stone. Too late! Too late!

"And you saw her go?" Almayer's voice sounded harshly above her head.

"Did I not tell you?" she sobbed, trying to wriggle gently out from under
his grip. "Did I not tell you that I saw the witchwoman push the canoe?
I lay hidden in the grass and heard all the words. She that we used to
call the white Mem wanted to return to look at your face, but the
witchwoman forbade her, and--"

She sank lower yet on her elbow, turning half round under the downward
push of the heavy hand, her face lifted up to him with spiteful eyes.

"And she obeyed," she shouted out in a half-laugh, half-cry of pain. "Let
me go, Tuan. Why are you angry with me? Hasten, or you shall be too
late to show your anger to the deceitful woman."

Almayer dragged her up to her feet and looked close into her face while
she struggled, turning her head away from his wild stare.

"Who sent you here to torment me?" he asked, violently. "I do not
believe you. You lie."

He straightened his arm suddenly and flung her across the verandah
towards the doorway, where she lay immobile and silent, as if she had
left her life in his grasp, a dark heap, without a sound or a stir.

"Oh! Nina!" whispered Almayer, in a voice in which reproach and love
spoke together in pained tenderness. "Oh! Nina! I do not believe."

A light draught from the river ran over the courtyard in a wave of bowing
grass and, entering the verandah, touched Almayer's forehead with its
cool breath, in a caress of infinite pity. The curtain in the women's
doorway blew out and instantly collapsed with startling helplessness. He
stared at the fluttering stuff.

"Nina!" cried Almayer. "Where are you, Nina?"

The wind passed out of the empty house in a tremulous sigh, and all was
still.

Almayer hid his face in his hands as if to shut out a loathsome sight.
When, hearing a slight rustle, he uncovered his eyes, the dark heap by
the door was gone.

Joseph Conrad

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