"
"But, if Master Jack Dillard gits de 'state," she proceeded, as though
she had not heard my eager question, "wy, den Sabra Smif am as dead as a
door-nail from dis time to de day ob judgment, an' de ole man'll have to
git anoder 'fectionate companion. I'se mity sorry for de poor ole soul,
but I a'n't gwine to put myself in Jack Dillard's claws, not ef I knows
myself. He's one ob dem young wite sort wat lubs de card-table, an'
don't scriminate atween ole an' young folks. You see, he's my masta's
nevy--for de ole folks had no chillun but Miss May Jane, an' she's bin
dead dis fifteen yeer, and bofe her chilluns dun follered her to de
grabe, so dere is only Miss Polly Ann lef, and--"
Here Mrs. Clayton groaned audibly, and, calling Dinah to her aid, broke
up the _tete-a-tete_ if such might justly have been called our
interview. It was not very long, however, before Dinah returned to my
bedside, by Mrs. Clayton's directions, to offer to comb out my hair,
which was tangled beyond my skill to thread in my prostrate condition.
Yet, to make an effort so far as to rise and have this done, I knew
would be of benefit to me.
We were sitting by the toilet, while the process of untangling my
massive length of locks was going on, and the upper drawer thereof was
half open, thus affording me a glimpse of its contents.
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