When the
breaking day had spread a pale golden ribbon over the black outline of
the forests, she took up her tray and departed towards the settlement,
going about her task purely from the force of habit. As she approached
Sambir she could see the excitement and she heard with momentary surprise
of the finding of Dain's body. It was not true, of course. She knew it
well. She regretted that he was not dead. She should have liked Dain to
be dead, so as to be parted from that woman--from all women. She felt a
strong desire to see Nina, but without any clear object. She hated her,
and feared her and she felt an irresistible impulse pushing her towards
Almayer's house to see the white woman's face, to look close at those
eyes, to hear again that voice, for the sound of which Dain was ready to
risk his liberty, his life even. She had seen her many times; she had
heard her voice daily for many months past. What was there in her? What
was there in that being to make a man speak as Dain had spoken, to make
him blind to all other faces, deaf to all other voices?
She left the crowd by the riverside, and wandered aimlessly among the
empty houses, resisting the impulse that pushed her towards Almayer's
campong to seek there in Nina's eyes the secret of her own misery.
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