“Mrs. Willems! Don’t. What are you . . .” cried the abashed Almayer, tearing his hand away.
“Oh, you are good!” she cried, with sudden exaltation, “You are noble . . . I shall pray every day . . . to all the saints . . . I shall . . .”
“Never mind . . . never mind!” stammered out Almayer, confusedly, without knowing very well what he was saying. “Only look out for Lingard. . . . I am happy to be able . . . in your sad situation . . . believe me. . . .”
They stood with the table between them, Joanna looking down, and her face, in the half-light above the lamp, appeared like a soiled carving of old ivory—a carving, with accentuated anxious hollows, of old, very old ivory. Almayer looked at her, mistrustful, hopeful. He was saying to himself: How frail she is! I could upset her by blowing at her. She seems to have got some idea of what must be done, but will she have the strength to carry it through? I must trust to luck now!
Somewhere far in the back courtyard Ali’s voice rang suddenly in angry remonstrance—
“Why did you shut the gate, O father of all mischief? You a watchman! You are only a wild man. Did I not tell you I was coming back? You . . .”
“I am off, Mrs. Willems,” exclaimed Almayer. “That man is here—with my servant. Be calm. Try to . . .”
He heard the footsteps of the two men in the passage, and without finishing his sentence ran rapidly down the steps towards the riverside.