He watched her reading with censorship, yet desire, patronage, and
oiliness together.
Glancing up when she had read far enough, Hulda thought he was looking
at her as if she was some rarer kind of negress.
"Beautifully read, Hulda! I never go to such places as theatres, but you
might be, I should say, an actress. Don't think of it, however! Very
unconservative profession! I take great pride in you, my lovely girl;
suppose I take you home with me!"
He walked to her stool, and laid his warm hand on her neck, standing
behind her; she did not move nor change color.
"Something has happened to me, Colonel McLane," Hulda spoke, clear as a
bell out of a prison, "to make even Johnson's Cross Roads good and
happy. Can you guess what it is?"
She bent her head back, and looked up fearlessly at him, as if he were
the negro now.
"Not religious ecstasy?" he said. "Not camp-meeting or revival
conversion, I hope. That's vile."
"No, Colonel. It is knowing a pure young man, whose love for me is
natural and unselfish."
"Great God!" spoke McLane, removing his hand. "Not some kidnapper?"
"No," Hulda said, "no slave-dealer of any kind. They cannot make him so.
He is perfectly conservative, Colonel, as to that vileness. I believe he
is a gentleman, too."
"You must have great experience in that article," he sneered, looking
angry at her.
"I have seen you and my lover; you have the best clothes, and profess
more.
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