Babalatchi crossed the courtyard towards the creek to
get his canoe, and Mrs. Almayer walked slowly to the house, ascended the
plankway, and passing through the back verandah entered the passage
leading to the front of the house; but before going in she turned in the
doorway and looked back at the empty and silent courtyard, now lit up by
the rays of the rising moon. No sooner she had disappeared, however,
than a vague shape flitted out from amongst the stalks of the banana
plantation, darted over the moonlit space, and fell in the darkness at
the foot of the verandah. It might have been the shadow of a driving
cloud, so noiseless and rapid was its passage, but for the trail of
disturbed grass, whose feathery heads trembled and swayed for a long time
in the moonlight before they rested motionless and gleaming, like a
design of silver sprays embroidered on a sombre background.
Mrs. Almayer lighted the cocoanut lamp, and lifting cautiously the red
curtain, gazed upon her husband, shading the light with her hand.
Almayer, huddled up in the chair, one of his arms hanging down, the other
thrown across the lower part of his face as if to ward off an invisible
enemy, his legs stretched straight out, slept heavily, unconscious of the
unfriendly eyes that looked upon him in disparaging criticism.
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