But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. ” Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face. He hesitated. Voilà tout, as Melusine herself would say. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. "He's about to cross the river. I told you no good would come of it.
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