"Your uncle must protect you. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. I don’t care what divides us. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. I thought that you were he. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. A very small settlement, mostly natives. We'll get this chap on his feet if only to learn what the trouble is. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. Mr.
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