They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. All at once it came to him what a fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly suppositional. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. Too late. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged.
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