Almayer's words had dried Nina's tears, and her look grew hard as she stared before her into the limitless sheet of blue that shone limpid, unwaving, and steady like heaven itself.

He looked at it also, but his features had lost all expression, and life in his eyes seemed to have gone out.

The face was a blank, without a sign of emotion, feeling, reason, or even knowledge of itself.

All passion, regret, grief, hope, or anger--all were gone, erased by the hand of fate, as if after this last stroke everything was over and there was no need for any record.
Those few who saw Almayer during the short period of his remaining days were always impressed by the sight of that face that seemed to know nothing of what went on within: like the blank wall of a prison enclosing sin, regrets, and pain, and wasted life, in the cold indifference of mortar and stones.
"What is there to forgive ?" asked Nina, not addressing Almayer directly, but more as if arguing with herself.

"Can I not live my own life as you have lived yours?
The path you would have wished me to follow has been closed to me by no fault of mine." "You never told me," muttered Almayer.
"You never asked me," she answered, "and I thought you were like the others and did not care.