appearance of stony indifference that had exasperated her father into his
outburst of anger and sorrow. The expression of her face, now unseen by
her father, underwent a rapid change. She had listened to Almayer's
appeal for sympathy, for one word of comfort, apparently indifferent, yet
with her breast torn by conflicting impulses raised unexpectedly by
events she had not foreseen, or at least did not expect to happen so
soon. With her heart deeply moved by the sight of Almayer's misery,
knowing it in her power to end it with a word, longing to bring peace to
that troubled heart, she heard with terror the voice of her overpowering
love commanding her to be silent. And she submitted after a short and
fierce struggle of her old self against the new principle of her life.
She wrapped herself up in absolute silence, the only safeguard against
some fatal admission. She could not trust herself to make a sign, to
murmur a word for fear of saying too much; and the very violence of the
feelings that stirred the innermost recesses of her soul seemed to turn
her person into a stone. The dilated nostrils and the flashing eyes were
the only signs of the storm raging within, and those signs of his
daughter's emotion Almayer did not see, for his sight was dimmed by self-
pity, by anger, and by despair.

Had Almayer looked at his daughter as she leant over the front rail of
the verandah he could have seen the expression of indifference give way
to a look of pain, and that again pass away, leaving the glorious beauty
of her face marred by deep-drawn lines of watchful anxiety. The long
grass in the neglected courtyard stood very straight before her eyes in
the noonday heat. From the river-bank there were voices and a shuffle of
bare feet approaching the house; Babalatchi could be heard giving
directions to Almayer's men, and Mrs. Almayer's subdued wailing became
audible as the small procession bearing the body of the drowned man and
headed by that sorrowful matron turned the corner of the house.