"He was coming back soon. There
would be no difficulties," he wrote; "people would rush in with their
money." Evidently they did not, for there was only one letter more from
him saying he was ill, had found no relation living, but little else
besides. Then came a complete silence. Europe had swallowed up the
Rajah Laut apparently, and Almayer looked vainly westward for a ray of
light out of the gloom of his shattered hopes. Years passed, and the
rare letters from Mrs. Vinck, later on from the girl herself, were the
only thing to be looked to to make life bearable amongst the triumphant
savagery of the river. Almayer lived now alone, having even ceased to
visit his debtors who would not pay, sure of Lakamba's protection. The
faithful Sumatrese Ali cooked his rice and made his coffee, for he dared
not trust any one else, and least of all his wife. He killed time
wandering sadly in the overgrown paths round the house, visiting the
ruined godowns where a few brass guns covered with verdigris and only a
few broken cases of mouldering Manchester goods reminded him of the good
early times when all this was full of life and merchandise, and he
overlooked a busy scene on the river bank, his little daughter by his
side.
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