The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. Help! help!" But her cries were unheeded. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. So you took my womb away, you took my baby! So I could be a monster! Because she was a monster! We are monsters!” He grabbed the top of the cannon away from her face. That dress is thirty years old, if a day.
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