Ali seemed anxious.
"Master," he said timidly, "time to get house now. Long way off to pull.
All ready, sir."
"Wait," whispered Almayer.
Now she was gone his business was to forget, and he had a strange notion
that it should be done systematically and in order. To Ali's great
dismay he fell on his hands and knees, and, creeping along the sand,
erased carefully with his hand all traces of Nina's footsteps. He piled
up small heaps of sand, leaving behind him a line of miniature graves
right down to the water. After burying the last slight imprint of Nina's
slipper he stood up, and, turning his face towards the headland where he
had last seen the prau, he made an effort to shout out loud again his
firm resolve to never forgive. Ali watching him uneasily saw only his
lips move, but heard no sound. He brought his foot down with a stamp. He
was a firm man--firm as a rock. Let her go. He never had a daughter. He
would forget. He was forgetting already.
Ali approached him again, insisting on immediate departure, and this time
he consented, and they went together towards their canoe, Almayer
leading. For all his firmness he looked very dejected and feeble as he
dragged his feet slowly through the sand on the beach; and by his
side--invisible to Ali--stalked that particular fiend whose mission it is
to jog the memories of men, lest they should forget the meaning of life.
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