There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. "Still," went on the manager, "they are slaves in a sense; they are bought and sold until their original indebtedness is paid. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all.
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