Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “There is my aunt,” she said. “I will not have this slavery. Better get a dress. Let me recommend a glass of wine. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. She brought Sebastian’s chloroformed rag up to his face with her right.
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