"No. Not on earth," said the doctor, with his back to him, clicking the
lock of the medicine case.
Nostromo slowly crossed the large kitchen, all dark but for the glow of
a heap of charcoal under the heavy mantel of the cooking-range, where
water was boiling in an iron pot with a loud bubbling sound. Between
the two walls of a narrow staircase a bright light streamed from the
sick-room above; and the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores stepping
noiselessly in soft leather sandals, bushy whiskered, his muscular
neck and bronzed chest bare in the open check shirt, resembled a
Mediterranean sailor just come ashore from some wine or fruit-laden
felucca. At the top he paused, broad shouldered, narrow hipped and
supple, looking at the large bed, like a white couch of state, with a
profusion of snowy linen, amongst which the Padrona sat unpropped and
bowed, her handsome, black-browed face bent over her chest. A mass of
raven hair with only a few white threads in it covered her shoulders;
one thick strand fallen forward half veiled her cheek. Perfectly
motionless in that pose, expressing physical anxiety and unrest, she
turned her eyes alone towards Nostromo.
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