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marble-topped table was a lovely etched hurricane glass of rare
pattern. A queer, heterageneous collection it was, and I turned
to leave, for I still had not found the woman whom I had come to
see. As I moved, a tall bookcase partly hidden now by the open door
came into view. I stood still, torn between desire
to investigate what appeared to be a rare literary find, and to
forget the mustiness of the past that surrounded me when the titles
of several books challenged my attention. These were Darwin's Origin
of the Species, the Descent of Man, and several books of
philosophy. Hardly a second passed, before the sound of shuffling
feet through what sounded like an empty room, was followed by a voice
which can only be described as flat and utterly lifeless saying, "You
better git out er here 'cause Mr. Charlie ain't gonna lack nobody
rummagin' 'roun' 'mongst his things." This was so totally unexpected
that for a moment I was frightened, and turning quickly I saw across
the room her bare arms hanging limp at her sides a barefoot Negro woman,
was clad in loose, soiled, blue homespun, and wore a faded spotted hand-
herchief around her head. Her face was curiously gray, and her eyes
so dull that she appeared encased in a fog. Silence followed, broken
only by a tree-branch which scraped the window to and fro.

The amazing thing was/that, though my imaginary fears had so complete-
ly upset me, the sight of a soul so withered and desolate should
somehow restore my confidence.

I tried as best I could to explain why I was there. "I came here
looking for Hester Frye, I said. "This here is Hessie," she replied.
"I was told," I continued, "that you lived on the old Johnson place
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