He will draw nearer
to her, toss her undulating hair, playfully, and with seeming
unconsciousness draw his brawny hand across her bosom. "Didn't mean
it!" he exclaims, contorting his broad red face, as she puts out her
hand, presses him from her, and disdains his second attempt. "Pluck,
I reckon! needn't put on mouths, though, when a feller's only
quizzin." He shrugs his great round shoulders, and rolls his wicked
eyes.
"I am not for you, man!" she interrupts: "I would scorn you, were I
not enslaved," she continues, a curl of contempt on her lip, as her
very soul kindles with grief. Rising quickly from his side she
walked across the pen, and seated herself on the opposite side. Here
she casts a frowning look upon him, as if loathing his very
presence. This, Mr. Pringle Blowers don't altogether like: slaves
have no right to look loathingly on white people. His flushed face
glows red with excitement; he runs his brawny fingers through the
tufted mats of short curly hair that stand almost erect on his head,
draws his capacious jaws into a singular angle, and makes a hideous
grimace.
The terrified girl has no answer to make; she is a forlorn outcast
of democracy's rule. He takes the black ribbon from round his neck,
bares his bosom more broadly than before, throws the plaid sack in
which he is dressed from off him, and leaping as it were across the
room, seizes her in his arms. "Kisses are cheap, I reckon, and a
feller what don't have enough on 'em 's a fool," he ejaculates, as
with a desperate struggle she bounds from his grasp, seizes the
knife from a negro's hand as she passes him, and is about to plunge
the shining steel into her breast.
Pages:
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650