Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair.
"In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in a severe tone. "I heard him—Ramirez—the miserable"
Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear:
"You have killed Gian' Battista." The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies.
"Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him.
Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes. "She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of her tomorrow."
She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty:
"Give me the book."
Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo.
"The child had to be protected," he said, in a strange mournful voice.
Behind his chair Linda wrung her hands, crying
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