"'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. ” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines. ” But she could not talk freely about love, she found, for all that manumission. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared.
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