I won't dig their graves with my nails. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. They walked in silence. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. His high brow was what caused all the ladies in town to covet him, it radiated intelligence but also something more primal.
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