The bright sunshine of the clear mistless morning, after the stormy night, flooded the main path of the settlement leading from the low shore of the Pantai branch of the river to the gate of Abdulla’s compound.  The path was deserted¹ this morning; it stretched its dark yellow surface, hard beaten by the tramp of many bare feet, between the clusters of palm trees, whose tall trunks barred it with strong black lines at irregular intervals², while the newly risen sun threw the shadows of their leafy heads far away over the roofs of the buildings lining³ the river, even over the river itself as it flowed swiftly and silently past the deserted houses.  For the houses were deserted too.  On the narrow strip of trodden grass intervening between their open doors and the road, the morning fires smouldered untended, sending thin fluted⁴ columns of smoke into the cool air, and spreading the thinnest veil of mysterious blue haze⁵ over the sunlit solitude⁶ of the settlement.  Almayer, just out of his hammock, gazed sleepily at the unwonted appearance of Sambir, wondering vaguely⁷ at the absence of life.  His own house was very quiet; he could not hear his wife’s voice, nor the sound of Nina’s footsteps in the big room, opening on the verandah, which he called his sitting-room⁸, whenever, in the company of white men, he wished to assert his claims to the commonplace decencies of civilisation⁹.  Nobody ever sat there; there was nothing there to sit upon, for Mrs. Almayer in her savage¹⁰ moods, when excited by the reminiscences of the piratical period of her life, had torn off the curtains to make sarongs for the slave-girls, and had burnt the showy furniture

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