“No, I am alone,” she answered. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant.
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