Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART THIRD: THE LIGHTHOUSE 12. CHAPTER TWELVE (continued)

"And between you three you have brought me here into this
captivity to the sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh,
Sanctissima Madre. My hair shall turn grey on this tedious
island. I could hate you, Gian' Battista!"

He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She
bemoaned her fate, spreading unconsciously, like a flower its
perfume in the coolness of the evening, the indefinable seduction
of her person. Was it her fault that nobody ever had admired
Linda? Even when they were little, going out with their mother to
Mass, she remembered that people took no notice of Linda, who was
fearless, and chose instead to frighten her, who was timid, with
their attention. It was her hair like gold, she supposed.

He broke out--

"Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets, and your lips
like the rose; your round arms, your white throat." . . .

Imperturbable in the indolence of her pose, she blushed deeply
all over to the roots of her hair. She was not conceited. She was
no more self-conscious than a flower. But she was pleased. And
perhaps even a flower loves to hear itself praised. He glanced
down, and added, impetuously--

"Your little feet!"

Leaning back against the rough stone wall of the cottage, she
seemed to bask languidly in the warmth of the rosy flush. Only
her lowered eyes glanced at her little feet.

"And so you are going at last to marry our Linda. She is
terrible. Ah! now she will understand better since you have told
her you love her. She will not be so fierce."

"Chica!" said Nostromo, "I have not told her anything."

"Then make haste. Come to-morrow. Come and tell her, so that I
may have some peace from her scolding and--perhaps--who knows . .
."

"Be allowed to listen to your Ramirez, eh? Is that it? You . . ."