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Updated: May 25, 2025
"What the devil do you want?" exclaimed Willems, looking towards the river. "Where's that damned boat? Why did you let them go away? You stupid!" "Oh, Peter! I know that in your heart you have forgiven me You are so generous I want to hear you say so. . . . Tell me do you?" "Yes! yes!" said Willems, impatiently. "I forgive you. Don't be a fool." "Don't go away. Don't leave me alone here.
He heard a stumbling rush inside. Things were overturned. Joanna's agitated voice cried "News! What? What? I am coming out." "No," shouted Almayer. "Put on some clothes, Mrs. Willems, and let me in. It's . . . very confidential. You have a candle, haven't you?" She was knocking herself about blindly amongst the furniture in that room. The candlestick was upset. Matches were struck ineffectually.
Damnation! "Let go, Lingard!" he shouted, trying to get away by a sudden jerk from the watchful old seaman. "Let me go and kill that . . ." "No you don't!" panted Lingard, hanging on manfully. "You want to kill, do you? You lunatic. Ah! I've got you now! Be quiet, I say!" They struggled violently, Lingard forcing Willems slowly towards the guard-rail.
The memory of the Californian stranger was perpetuated in the game of poker which became popular in the capital of Celebes from that time and in a powerful cocktail, the recipe for which is transmitted in the Kwang-tung dialect from head boy to head boy of the Chinese servants in the Sunda Hotel even to this day. Willems was a connoisseur in the drink and an adept at the game.
Abdulla slim, very straight, his head high, and his hands hanging before him and twisting mechanically the string of beads; Willems tall, broad, looking bigger and stronger in contrast to the slight white figure by the side of which he strolled carelessly, taking one step to the other's two; his big arms in constant motion as he gesticulated vehemently, bending forward to look Abdulla in the face.
To me you are not Willems, the man I befriended and helped through thick and thin, and thought much of . . . You are not a human being that may be destroyed or forgiven. You are a bitter thought, a something without a body and that must be hidden . . . You are my shame." He ceased and looked slowly round. How dark it was!
He had carried it many years already when the boy Willems ran barefooted on the deck of the ship Kosmopoliet IV. in Samarang roads, looking with innocent eyes on the strange shore and objurgating his immediate surroundings with blasphemous lips, while his childish brain worked upon the heroic idea of running away.
Where is the danger? I am so frightened. . . . Are you alone here? Sure? . . . Let us go away!" "That's sense," said Willems, still looking anxiously towards the river. She sobbed gently, leaning on his arm. "Let me go," he said. He had seen above the steep bank the heads of three men glide along smoothly.
He raised his clasped hands above his head and brought them down jerkily, separating his fingers with an effort, as if tearing them apart. Lingard nodded, quickly, several times. "I have. Awkward. Hey?" he said, with a puzzled look upwards. "Upon my word," said Almayer, tearfully. "I can't understand you at all. What will you do next! Willems' wife!" "Wife and child. Small boy, you know.
The houses right and left were hidden behind the black masses of flowering shrubs. Willems had the street to himself. He would walk in the middle, his shadow gliding obsequiously before him. He looked down on it complacently. The shadow of a successful man! He would be slightly dizzy with the cocktails and with the intoxication of his own glory.
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