Decoud turned half round in his chair, and asked, “Is there any bread here?”
Linda’s dark head was shaken negatively in response, above the fair head of her sister nestling on her breast.
“You couldn’t get me some bread?” insisted Decoud. The child did not move; he saw her large eyes stare at him very dark from the corner. “You’re not afraid of me?” he said.
“No,” said Linda, “we are not afraid of you. You came here with Gian’ Battista.”
“You mean Nostromo?” said Decoud.
“The English call him so, but that is no name either for man or beast,” said the girl, passing her hand gently over her sister’s hair.
“But he lets people call him so,” remarked Decoud.
“Not in this house,” retorted the child.
“Ah! well, I shall call him the Capataz then.”
Decoud gave up the point, and after writi
