Melancholy indeed she is,
for she has passed an ordeal of unholy brutality. Near her sits one
Pringle Blowers, a man of coarse habits, who resides on his
rice-plantation, a few miles from the city, into which he frequently
comes, much to the annoyance of quietly disposed citizens and
guardsmen, who are not unfrequently called upon to preserve the
peace he threatens to disturb. Dearly does he love his legitimate
brandy, and dearly does it make him pay for the insane frolics it
incites him to perpetrate, to the profit of certain saloons, and
danger of persons. Madman under the influence of his favourite
drink, a strange pride besets his faculties, which is only appeased
with the demolition of glass and men's faces. For this strange
amusement he has become famous and feared; and as the light of his
own besotted countenance makes its appearance, citizens generally
are not inclined to interpose any obstacle to the exercise of his
belligerent propensities.
Here he sits, viewing Annette with excited scrutiny. Never before
has he seen anything so pretty, so bright, so fascinating-all
clothed with a halo of modesty-for sale in the market. The nigger is
completely absorbed in the beauty, he mutters to himself: and yet
she must be a nigger or she would not be here. That she is an
article of sale, then, there can be no doubt. "Van, yer the nicest
gal I've seen! Reckon how Grasp. paid a tall shot for ye, eh?" he
says, in the exuberance of his fascinated soul.
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