Half obliterated words--"Office: Lingard and Co."--were
still legible on the dusty door, which looked as if it had not been
opened for a very long time. Close to the other side wall stood a bent-
wood rocking-chair, and by the table and about the verandah four wooden
armchairs straggled forlornly, as if ashamed of their shabby
surroundings. A heap of common mats lay in one corner, with an old
hammock slung diagonally above. In the other corner, his head wrapped in
a piece of red calico, huddled into a shapeless heap, slept a Malay, one
of Almayer's domestic slaves--"my own people," he used to call them. A
numerous and representative assembly of moths were holding high revels
round the lamp to the spirited music of swarming mosquitoes. Under the
palm-leaf thatch lizards raced on the beams calling softly. A monkey,
chained to one of the verandah supports--retired for the night under the
eaves--peered and grinned at Almayer, as it swung to one of the bamboo
roof sticks and caused a shower of dust and bits of dried leaves to
settle on the shabby table. The floor was uneven, with many withered
plants and dried earth scattered about. A general air of squalid neglect
pervaded the place. Great red stains on the floor and walls testified to
frequent and indiscriminate betel-nut chewing.
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