"They are eating in the front verandah," answered Ali. "Do not stop me,
Tuan. I am giving the white men their food and am busy."
"Where's Mem Almayer?"
"Inside in the passage. She is listening to the talk."
Ali grinned and passed on; Babalatchi ascended the plankway to the rear
verandah, and beckoning out Mrs. Almayer, engaged her in earnest
conversation. Through the long passage, closed at the further end by the
red curtain, they could hear from time to time Almayer's voice mingling
in conversation with an abrupt loudness that made Mrs. Almayer look
significantly at Babalatchi.
"Listen," she said. "He has drunk much."
"He has," whispered Babalatchi. "He will sleep heavily to-night."
Mrs. Almayer looked doubtful.
"Sometimes the devil of strong gin makes him keep awake, and he walks up
and down the verandah all night, cursing; then we stand afar off,"
explained Mrs. Almayer, with the fuller knowledge born of twenty odd
years of married life.
"But then he does not hear, nor understand, and his hand, of course, has
no strength. We do not want him to hear to-night."
"No," assented Mrs. Almayer, energetically, but in a cautiously subdued
voice. "If he hears he will kill."
Babalatchi looked incredulous.
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