Page 472 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

sensible his profound isolation. His pace became slower. No
one waited for him; no one thought of him; no one expected
or wished his return. ‘Betrayed! Betrayed!’ he muttered to
himself. No one cared. He might have been drowned by this
time. No one would have cared—unless, perhaps, the chil-
dren, he thought to himself. But they were with the English
signora, and not thinking of him at all.
He wavered in his purpose of making straight for the
Casa Viola. To what end? What could he expect there? His
life seemed to fail him in all its details, even to the scornful
reproaches of Teresa. He was aware painfully of his reluc-
tance. Was it that remorse which she had prophesied with,
what he saw now, was her last breath?
Meantime, he had deviated from the straight course, in-
clining by a sort of instinct to the right, towards the jetty and
the harbour, the scene of his daily labours. The great length
of the Custom House loomed up all at once like the wall of a
factory. Not a soul challenged his approach, and his curios-
ity became excited as he passed cautiously towards the front
by the unexpected sight of two lighted windows.
They had the fascination of a lonely vigil kept by some
mysterious watcher up there, those two windows shining
dimly upon the harbour in the whole vast extent of the
abandoned building. The solitude could almost be felt. A
strong smell of wood smoke hung about in a thin haze,
which was faintly perceptible to his raised eyes against the
glitter of the stars. As he advanced in the profound silence,
the shrilling of innumerable cicalas in the dry grass seemed
positively deafening to his strained ears. Slowly, step by step,

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